‘As drops that dream and gleam and falling catch the sun,
Evanescent mirrors every opal one’ 
Ezra Pound, from ‘Umbra’.

Face towards the sky
the blades of grass slicing a view of the infinite,
now the sunlight enters the iris
there’s still an unconsciousness about it,
about everything. Concentrating and dissolving
the existenses twain,

coincide overlap intersect

and they turn hazy, a pair of muddy brown eyes
the lids now closing and re closing, the Ambros empowering out,
wreathed out of dreams and desires.

The dove soars over the dreaming head,
and dissolves over the horizon of brown.

“I am thy ghost, Alfrez, the apparition of your death
come from beyond the bounds of time
and here before you.
“Yet I can’t speak of nothing to you,
though I’ve seen what you will,
I can’t relate it to you.
“That dove still soars wide in the perspective,
but no more can be said. Nay more.
“The baldness of the bud that will soon bloom
bears no cue to you.”

I can’t remember and you can’t forget,
the rivers and their flames.

It is quiet here.
I do not go.

Like what you read? Give Zev Akhter a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.