Soulache – A poem by Syed Rabe’a Bukhari
Pieces of my broken soul still cling to you
Drooping breaths from frail limbs of life
Moonbeams, like quicksilver, skid down my ashen face
I see them quivering and squirming
In tiny puddles of lashing rain
Creating ripples of longing, of piercing pain!Tonight, broken
I lay upon your step of clemency
In a scattered clutter
Deciphering the codes of life, I painfully stutter
Then, gather me again
A surging tumult splits the heart
Part by part
And its evil gray eye
Consumes my bits
Down a haunting solitudeI gaze empty
As moments fly by
Like dead Autumn leaves
Hurled by a careless wind
Upon a deserted pavementWhere are the melancholic hues of occasion?
This Fall, under a tainted sky
I miss seasons, blink by blink
Leaves fall; decay. Unnoticed.
Autumn is Soulache.
It sobs like a restless spirit, beating its upset wings
Against hollow mesh of cold boughs
When every morn, I behold a rubble of yellow stains
Dotting a red lane
Sundered pieces of yellow flesh, floating in Autumn rain.Fall has a destitute soul
Its bewitching glory, all smoke
Like deliquescent life, melting away with its mellowness
Time whirls like a dipsomaniac skull
Or am I in a trance?
These pale hands still hold an agitated spool of memories
Autumn breeds nostalgia, I unwind my worries
And slowly, I crawl back
Into the dark womb of memories
I dissolve into wilderness of an abandoned town
Where stones shriek
And a stream, that once hopped with gargling murmurs
Eulogizes with its black waters
The hollow skeletons of an empty laughterLining its fractured bay.
Water, that never stops
To stir and bind; when dusk chops
Desire and mind.I want to get into the Autumn wood
And burn with dry leaves of Chinar
Along deserted pavements
Whereby
An old sweeper gathers the colorful rubble
Of a decaying life
I want to be preserved
As smoke
In the crevices of nostalgic minds
That coils and nestles around their memory
Like a fading Autumnal note
Like incantation of seasons, never wrote
Alone with barren soul of Fall
I lose the count
Of falling leaves and empty sighs,
Autumn has settled deep in my eyes.
About the author
Syed Rabe’a Bukhari, published her first work when she was in 7th Grade in 2003.
For her, writing is something which keeps coming back and acts as a potent device to portray the simmering anguish and choking
emotions of those around her. She writes so to carve a memorial, however small on the fleeting pages of time. Now she writes to
cure her maladious soul.