Wood Pencil
by Faruk Wasif

 

I am a wood pencil.
I carry no eraser.
I am made of a fossilized dark night and of dark bone.
Whatever way you sharpen the core
It is nothing but frozen blood of a dark bird and I am his brother.Come with a razor in your hand
And sharpen me once again before you write.
Hard to imagine.
But yes –
Sharpening over and over makes me lean.
I loose my body.
My remains are nothing but few left over petals of Bakul flower.
I speak in empty points.
Music is the primordial reason.
I listen to the music.
My empty point sucks in life’s water and swells in circles.
The sky is strewn with myriad rainbows.
I write in the sky.
I write with my bone.
I write on leaves and on trees and on walls.
I die as I write.
I have written all I have.
If you come back, sharpen your eyes.
Focus your berating eyes and see:

”under the umbrage of my notes 
nests 
endearment,
remembrance,
and, 
tenderness 
of my sentiment”

I have not etched them yet.