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Ilma Qureshi

when a koel, or shall we say, a cuckoo,
lets out a song
the day folds, decidedly, 
like a teenager
rolling up sleeves
in the heat of July
then, glistening like a water crystal
a sharp clarity descends on me;
the world will go on
in its infinite, shimmery beauty
after i am gone
can I trust such a world?
what then, shall my gait be?
shall i wear my trousers rolled?
shall i stop
to look at the ant  
that carries a sack thicker than frail legs
or the bird
that goes home with empty-pockets
and yet glides with a certain flair,
shining; like a crescent 
woven in the silken sky

Poetry South 13, 2021, pg. 11