Each grey hair I grow has powers unknown To all but the torchlight that never blinked In the storm that unlit our beacons, thrown Into darkness by the ardour that winked And sputtered hope. All the while that serene, Stolid tube of trapped and vapid light stared On, through the thunder, at the drowning green Faces and porches standing almost bared Of their ramparts of privilege. But dare We raise cold grace to the rank of the hiss Of log-fires, of candles’ need to care For us? Do we forget to treasure this? Better to feign and mourn a Love unfelt And sneak, secretless, into a sphinx’s pelt
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Zin Daily, Litbreak, Broadkill, Rising Phoenix, Big City Lit, Constellate, Harpy Hybrid, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages, and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her. Linktree: https://linktr.ee/HibahShabkhez
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