by Asim Rafiq Mulla
An empty church, A lonely bride
A mourning cross, A heart that died.
Look deep in the pool; A sinner still lives,
Tears ooze out, A love still brews.
Blessed with the mark of destiny’s whip,
He lived a prisoner of the sinking ship.
She gave him freedom, he aspired it not
Cursed silver from the pious lot.
Death was near, it always was
To claim the soul, fulfil it cause
But it came so late, lost in shade,
Boon or bane, the miseries of fate.
For foolish feelings rolled in time,
They both swam in the river of lime.
Call on to the hand that writes all plays
To justify this act where tragedy stays.
To give them freedom and moments and hope
And push them slightly of the slope.
To give them love, A dream, A day;
Then shatter all that, like a castle of clay.
Amidst the journey he eloped with death,
An aesthetic agony is love shibboleth.
She weeped in vain, her soul in pain,
Brumal grim of a fiendful rain
The rays of hell, scatter by heavens lens
Seemed so sour, her convalescence
The weary wish, ebbed and glazed,
Across the faith, her vision dazed
This much is the story and for that sinless birch,
A lonely bride and an empty church.
Last updated October 16, 2015