I Wonder.
I wonder.
What secrets lie dormant in the once breathing body.
What passions flowed unhindered through the agile brain,
An uncovered utopia or a fearless ambition?
An image flashes by.
One which is daunting, unforgiving and pierces through the inanimate.
An ancient revival of contemplation,
In the words you used to read,
And the thoughts you reincarnated on paper,
Giving home to the wandering.
I wonder.
What you used to think?
What rivers of illumination passed through those verdant ravines?
What blood was shed in the war of letters as you flurried through them?
What humility, and whether any hypocrisy?
What virtue resounding in any vice?
The colours you painted, well-acclaimed nonetheless,
Leaves the colourless empty-handed,
With nothing but words.
Endless and uncertain.
They wander now without your guiding refuge,
Into empty arms and charred hearts.
They wish to seek you.
And they strain me for directions.
The ones to your grave.
I wonder.
What should I say?
– Imaan Siddiq
The Genres of Life 