The Cry of the Soul

Aleeya Tamzida

(In memory of SMI, my teacher)

Far from bright sun-rays,
inside the womb of the dark cave,
the pathshala stands
amidst the feeble flicker of waning candles.

Withdrawn from own flames,
the half-fed masters in black chains
and tattered dress,
feed rolling echoes, dancing shadows faint images- all meaningless.

But a sage fumbling in the dark
searches light from dawn to dusk;

he unfolds the rays of sun for all;
until his last breath he calls;
he pleads; he yells; he cries on and on—
but the cry of his soul reached none.

The breath of the cave is heavier,

The mist of anguish everywhere—
still hang lifeless echoes, flickering shadows, faint letters,

the soul lies in iron fetters.