TERMINALL : by Dr. Mohammad Abdullah Al-Mallah - MOSUL , IRAQ
.
The clock is stinging every second,
With its tall persistent needle;
The ruthlessly stubborn clock,
We watch consume our heart-beats, tick by tick,
And wait for its ultimate chime.
In our spacious, crowded terminal,
Some are waiting, silent, awed;
Time to cross the eerie tunnel,
The ever-welcoming, one-way road;
Their ultimate farthest flight,
With some leaving their best part.
.
Time to leave the smiling mornings,
The tender, whispered wakening,
Breakfast ready : sunny-side-ups,
A whiff of pepper-and-salt, as desired,
And the sparkling tender cheeses,
You know how this Sir pleases,
And nicely-brownished morsels crispy,
Which he savours with his tea,
And you awaiting a pleasing nod,
For the well-done, aptly seasoned,
And your radiance when this done;
Another trophy you have won.
Thinking of you sitting there,
Now that you're silent and gray;
Your eyes roaming over nothing, nowhere,
In your desolute gloomy chamber,
With worlds of things to remember;
Here a darling used to wander,
Among the gleaming rose shrubs,
Squeezing through them buttercups,
And here was reading mammoth books,
Which you disliked, said your looks;
For years in his master place,
In his quiet manly grace.
And here and there scanty banter,
And some of his peaceful anger.
You've compressed perhaps for years,
I know how caring, that you are,
Feigning happy lest you mar,
The day for saddened darling ones,
Shunning all the sweet bygones.
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