| Poem |
 
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The Reflection by Zaara Haroon
 (6 ratings)
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The Reflection
She is as soulful as is the morning light,
With the clasp of her hand, she is as warmly comforting as the cauliflowers of the sky
The heavenly maidens with their solitude bless her lonely bliss
With her fingers working like magic on the clay
She moulds me playfully, frolicking away in her caprice.
I’ve seen her in all her forms:
She has wiped off her tears very often for the fear of been taken as a woman of consequence
She has shown up in the worst of her times, midnights and days.
She stands right in front,
Or sometimes at better angles still
To show herself her tearless, fearless eyes blushed with the salt and the sugar
She has never shared joys though;
Foe joy comes from within, and she never searched me there
And she, like the soulful sunlight has always reflected and dispersed it in her million moods:
Some of them …like the swinging pendulum,
Others like the metallic clutters,
Looks at me with her smiling eyes.
She wavers like a tiny shred in the winds
She blushes like the deepening whirlpools, sucking away at my attention.
I’ve seen the most beautiful of women but their spark
They pose and depose for in that lies their personal charm
They come to me for my sincere detailed vision after a dance or before the drink
To look at their self in me, through me.
No matter how much I tell them to let themselves as natural and as pretty as they are,
As worthy as eve herself as she stepped into me to find herself as most women do,
This brown eyed sting with venom of power has done it for me.
She acts, she poses, she laughs, she opposes.
She is funnily true and strange as the stars when they twinkle
It takes a deal to understand her state of mind…
She hides it all from her own self in a fury of consternation
She hides it all in a fury of her beauty.
I’ve seen her passion, I’ve seen her compassion
Her glassy eyes, her cheeks with the hues of the best garden’s best shades
Her blush, her rush, her curves and curls
Her lips when they open to speak, and show up an occasional smile instead
Her body of porcelain, her breaths after a cold shower
Drops of water slithering by from her hair to over her shoulders
I wish I could touch the dream which I daze at in my day of the women who come as close to understand with concentration, their new shade of lips.
She touches me often, but rarely does she react
I know I am her first love, her first passion which she discovered as a child
She had me in her arms when she bend down to plant in me the seeds of her first kiss
The first one which brushed me lightly, which pecked into me slightly
And then she let go with a smile as I almost lost it in my reflection in her eyes
She left me lying by her bed in a never ending desire to be myself again,
In a desire to be hers.
She knows herself through the light which she reflects
She knows herself through me.
I know her power and will
Also her courage to love with all her strength
She leaves her reflection behind when she looks at me at a distance,
And her perfume when she comes close
I wish I was the man, not just her dream
I am the one held lifeless when I show all their lively faces and moods,
I am the one with whom nobody is embarrassed to reveal it all.
And I am in love with the one who can never be mine
I am the one whom she shattered as a child
And as she writes it all, she looks up at me to ask me if that is all I want to say.
I want to say much more…much more that simply this
I don’t know how to say it all to her
I don’t want to be just her way of connecting to her self
I don’t want be just in love with her neutrality
I don’t want to just the mirror on her wall…
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