Letter to a dead poet

I wish you were here Shahid. My hands fail me again tonight. As the night gnaws at my heart and everything becomes dark. I try to remember your lines again.

But my memory betrays me again. I can't remember anything.

I am not dead, Shahid. I am sure of that because even death cannot be so depressing. I am sure I am in a prison cell because the walls feel cold like stone. Stones, which are as cold as the hands of death.

It's been years since I have seen light come through that window on my windowsill. It has been dark since years now. I have lost count of the years. Perhaps it has not been years but perhaps the days have been too dismal.

It is hard to think coherently these days.

Shahid.

I sometimes have hallucinations. I see men walking with their heads on a pike. I see men with hollow eyes and empty smiles.

The men seem familiar, they all look like me

Shahid, I am scared

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Tasenda

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