Ravi

by Hafeez ur Rehman

Parched bed of my
storytelling river
sends curses galore.

Dry spell makes more
tales but waits for floods
to bring them afloat.

One would be a strange narration
of a boy who would dread floods
far away from the banks.

He would run pale at the thought
of that alligator who spared his father's
life after overturning the boat fair and square.

The whirlpool that
missed both father and son
comes as a regular nightmare.

Laid back river has painful memories of
a dozen door monument’s
shift from the edge to the bed.

When rivers give up on flowing,
stories stagnate, landless bank dwellers now cultivate
the dry course and reap a bumper crop.

Right side of the once most soft talking river
plays a loud obscene music in a resort
heartrendingly called The Magic River.

This too is not without a story,
not of love, pain and adventure
but of graft in our scale of time.

14-Aug-2013

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