The Peacock and the Pomegranate Tree

Dawn to dusk
the city is pricking the skin of people walking all over it.

The Pomegranate Tree 
flowers a peacock in a dream
almond moon and hyacinth evenings on its feathers. 

It breathes in the noises,
the lonely cries, the panicking uneasiness and sheds lustre 
on the graves of those who never found love.

Not in this burning world – 

Elsewhere, it sings in whispers 
something about the meeting of comets, the sadness of paradise, 
the way souls grow into wormholes and scatter on the land below.

The foot corn has clotted its heart dreaming of a silver fish swimming in the swallowed sky.

Pluck its feathers 
mix it with blood red seeds
the scars of the living will heal.

(i)
Everything is crumbling – 
the spider webs fibers of love 
on your crimson leaves but
the traumas remain.

Your flowers have suppressed the desire 
to be touched for so long.

The air is devoid of warmth 
a body feels in a comforting embrace. 

My tongue hasn’t felt 
the syllables of ‘a name’ 
that can release my deepest fears.

My eyes still linger on the sunset 
exhausted from my sadness

and the rainy mud on my palms 
never smells of love.  

We are fireflies of eternal loneliness – 

Let go of the yearning for love
you were born with the fate of the moon 
and the torment of the sea.

I engrave my name on your hesitant leaves 
I claim you as my own; 
I want to belong to you.

(ii)
Ammi ties a black sandal around your branches, 
this time closer to the cluster of new flowers.

Your pomegranate rots when she breaks it open.

They say – 
you have overstayed in my garden for so long, 
as long as I have, 
you aren’t welcome here anymore.

They say – 
you are cursed in this life for a sin 
you committed before you were a seed.

You are to bear this pain as a punishment for your rebellion.

They say – 
you never followed the lines 
drawn by the great ancestors for each tree to survive.

The order of nature
the weak obey, 
the strong dominate and rule.

Become the ideal tree if you want to stand tall 
or find an island to grow alone in abandonment. 

Live within ‘me’ and find a way to love yourself as you are.

(iii)
You shed the last petal, 
a few pollen drift in the moist air 
and settle on my fragile heart.

The stressed nerve in my skull 
throbs in fear when words feel empty.

You choose to remain 
in this place of rumors and restlessness.
The crown is decaying again; 
it has felt the heartburn of the white owl 
feeding on my nightmares.

It is cursed.

I see you have grown taller, 
almost touching the jamuni* clouds 
pouring light on your sour leaves.

But you and I have never belonged to the missed vowels of love.
*jamuni- Urdu word for purple