In a kingdom where I was born,
A life as a subject, my fate adorned.
The king, sometimes despot, sometimes not,
Axes flashed, in shadows sought.
But amidst the darkness, old ballads sang,
Sitting by the well, where kinsfolk rang.
Silver shattered, yet hearts were strong,
Amidst the trials, we still belonged.
A queen, whetted by the moon's soft gleam,
We, her subjects, in her sight did dream.
Each one's desire, the other's pursuit,
Parrots bloomed, in gardens mute.
Learning to hunt in this new empire's reign,
The king tested knives, causing pain.
Oranges, pomegranates, soft birches too,
Witnessing the teeth of traitors, we knew.
Strangers massed at the borders' edge,
We practiced subjection, a solemn pledge.
Twine, rope, and vials of white,
We wrought hunger, in the night.
Dealers came with jewels, after the dusk,
In the court at night, debates did husk.
Language's skin peeled, revealing inside,
A woman in a field, a fruit to abide.
Moving pictures brought delight anew,
Cranking the machine, light's debut.
Courtiers balancing pineapples with glee,
As shadows danced, we sought to see.
Our hidden queen, vanished from sight,
Slid into shadows, embracing the night.
Like a spider in retreat, weaving her web,
A mind's intricate maze, her celestial ebb.
Sundays, we flew kites in skies so vast,
Threads spooling high, our joy cast.
Images coated in precious metal, sent away,
Indifferent to wealth, amidst the play.
I miss the citrus scent of spring's embrace,
On plazas filled with kite flyers' grace.
I obeyed my king, my kind, not faithless,
Wishing now for renewal, in tenderness.
As the spindle creaks with tales untold,
They came to my house, truth unfolds.
Coated fingers with powder, thirsty and cruel,
Born with a spirit like you, longing to renew.
So let me awaken, let me be made new,
In the kingdom of life, where dreams come true.
About the Creator
khudai Noor
pen as his compass and creative mind as her material, has secured himself as a complex narrator in the scholarly domain. His stories, various in type yet reliably convincing, mirror a profound comprehension of the human experience.
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We Must Share Our Stories
I used to believe that they would be safe as long as I kept my stories safe in my head. Safe from the world's eyes, from judgment, and from slipping through my fingers and being quickly forgotten. But it was different; stories are not treasures you unearth and hide underground, hoping no one will find and steal them. They are akin to birds – if you don't let them out, they will die, their song erased. When I was younger, I clung to my stories like honeybees locked in jars, their humming perpetual and their light flickering. I would use them to pass the time, to keep myself warm in winter's chill, but I'd never set them free. And in time, I would take them for granted. And they would slip through my fingers. Little by little, the stories would escape, and their colors would dim. The world became dull, the seasons unchanging, and the adventure was less thrilling. Eventually, the stories turned into distant memories. I realized that stories, like the sun, need to shine in the lives of others for them to be as brilliant as they could be. Collect and keep them to yourself; their warmth will eventually run out. This was my mistake and my lesson.
By Owen Belen6 days ago in Poets
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