Cure
When humanity is dying then asking for the cure of my heart is irrelevant.
How arrogant I can be to sit beside the ruins and whisper-
Tell me how to mend my heart?!
How to cure the malice?!
As if the beats of one heart matters -
When the world itself bleeds,
Coughs up blood.
When the earth is dehydrated of kindness,
When the sky chokes up and holds on unspoken grief, then pours its tears on the low valleys to flood.
When generosity is buried under the debris of convenience,
Then, isn’t it too inconvenient to ask for my relief?!
Open your eyes,
Open your heart,
Open your conscience,
Look around....
Veins of megacities run with blood of indifference and chaos.
Hands that once held us now meticulously calculates how long shall it hold, how longer to fold and how sooner to leave.
Eyes no longer meet souls,
They measure.
They make up stories,
They stereotype.
They judge.
And, you my dear Penelope,
You come to me with your broken heart,
Fragile hurt and agile ache,
Storing it as if it is the last artifact surviving on the doom of the earth.
The surviving relic of the pain that you indulged.
The grief that you lived,
The misery that you overcame.
The final signs were held too tight in your chest.
Engraved like how mummies were curved in the pyramid walls,
One by one you bury them in the graveyard of your heart.
You ask for quick remedy,
Ask for gentle philosophies,
For consoling soft words,
To bandaid your ache.
But, my dear, I have a sharp tongue.
A sharp vision that would act like a sword to cut your pain with my words.
And, show you the wound that was biting through your flesh and eating you up like a round worm- always circulating, always propagating.
What else shall I do? What else to suggest except offering the poison of wisdom?!
What cure do I prescribe to a world that has forgotten how to feel before it learned how to connect?
What medicine revives a species that negotiates empathy, bargain compassion?
That tends to commodify love and modify affection, that affects humanity, until heartbreak feels rehearsed !
As if a staged performance, where both you and I are performing love.
No.....
Do not ask me how to save your heart,
Do not ask cure for heartbreaks.
I do not know. I don't understand love.
I don't know what to say when humanity itself is on life support, struggling to gasp air,
Suffocated beneath the weight of its own destruction.
The havoc it created- hatred, greed, conspiracy, jealousy and spite.
Because your wound, however deep, however sacred, however prolonged is only a reflection of a much louder collapse-
An apocalypse of humanity and sanity before you were even born.
The emotional corpse you burry each time a new with a brand new pain.
And, perhaps.....
Perhaps, the tragedy is not your heart is broken,
But, it still dares to beat, beat for others, love and live in the dried up world that has already chosen to die, buried itself in a horrid death land.
Even in your bereavement you hope for the betterment of the world,
Even at your lowest you stick with your morals,
You aspire for the best for people.
Even at the peak of your loneliness you still chose to remain kind.
That's the ultimate beauty.
That's beautiful.
The purity of innocence.
Thugs think they exploit your kindness easily but It's always you sympathizing with them,
Understanding their motives, yet you help them.
That's love that pours out of you.
That's sincerity that lingers through you like a heavenly scent from your soul.
©® Farheen Akter Bhuian Nancy
Timestamp: 10.53 am, T-4
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