Mother, I Didn't Visit Your Grave! | A poetry

           

Mother,

I didn’t visit

your grave,

for I knew

you never died.

Whoever announced

your death

spoke a lie.

It wasn’t you

who faded—

it was a color

that dulled,

a flower

that withered,

the sun

that bled

and finally set.

Do they still

believe

it was you?

Nonsense!

Nothing has changed

in you.

Every bit of your blood

flows through my veins,

carrying all your scars

and flaws.

Your fingers breathe

through my hands,

wearing your

worn and weathered

touch.

Your scent lingers

in my limbs,

drawing their attention

to you.

Whatever I cook,

whatever I prepare,

I enter the same kitchen

you once graced

with your presence.

When I peel an onion,

I feel your tears

welling up 

in my eyes.

When I try a new recipe,

I find you leaning

against the basin,

stirring the gravy.

Nothing has altered

in the haven you sheltered.

When my brother cracks a joke,

I find you smiling

on my lips.

When he fusses,

your scowl

reflects in me.

Your heartbeat

thrums within my chest.

Your breath

enlivens my spirit.

In my laughter, there’s you.

In my tears, there’s you.

In my reprimands, your voice rises.

In my demands, your eyes blaze.

Whoever wrote

your name

on the grave before me

is a liar,

for buried beneath

the soil and sheets

of your grave

is me.

You are alive, breathing

within me.

If you ever find time,

come,

visit my grave.

~ Bint-e-Azhar

🔸🔸🔸

Poet's Note:

This was technically my first poetry. There was a time when I read a lot of Urdu poetry about mothers, especially by Munawar Rana. I started this poem back then but couldn't finish it until now. As I wrote, I shivered, my fingers trembled, but I ended it. May Allah give long lives to all mothers. Ameen💔 

So, how was it?