She once said that the ugliest of men write the most beautiful poems.
Poems from the afterlife; about things only felt but never understood, about stories only imagined never experienced.
Written in closed, dark rooms with misplaced clothes and belongings.
Written for unknown people reading in an unknown time to displace unknown thoughts and longings.
Like clear water in a mountain stream it flows; word after word, mere syllables strung together to help you understand.
Hold your hand close to your heart; it beats together with those ugly poets as you read on.
There is no tale, no moral, no end.
Just words that remind you of people, places and senses that never existed.
You won’t be afraid nor excited.
Just a recurring feeling of completeness you might feel.
Like a road going somewhere familiar; like the smell of your mother cooking; like the sound of the azaan asking you to give up trying to sleep.
She said those ugly men live their dreams through the words they write.
They make their lies, their truth;
They make their expectations, their reality.
They turn people to characters and sorrows to enlightenment.
They write, they write to get past fragments of time they don’t want in their life.
They talk fluently in silence unlike in sound;
They write for all to go in vain and see the world burn in their ink.
They write to read themselves to sleep.
She said the ugliest of men write the most beautiful poems and I asked if I am ugly enough.