Mastura Tasnim

Every year, the same story
Some man, and his glories
While you shrink to half
And pay back retributions in glass
Fictional characters flit about in your dreams
Some real ones that you’d rather lose by now
If life’s game is in the crescent moons
And half-mast sails
Peering through the rudder hulls
Then yours is on a wheelbarrow, trudging along

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
Or a woman cowered
Or a woman ignored
Hell hath no women
They’re all standing mute on the corridors in between
Signing greeting cards
Wafting vacuous air hostess smiles
Ushering in the next great big legends of the world
A passing muse, a footnote in history

Half-past illustration for Mastura

In a small country far away, a father leans into the crib and says
“Your dreams are my dreams and my dreams are your dreams and no one can take them away”
Marriage rituals abound
Baby showers float into the vision
There’s a million balloons to partnership
A lifetime choice award for an engagement ring
Thousands of lillies strewn about on a proposal floor
That you better cross
If you’re worthy

Parties stop
Kandallah calls
An ear falls off heaven and listens to the ground
If you’re worthy