I sit at my study table
The fire warming the silence of this rainy afternoon
A slender flame leaps out of the place of shadows,
Making me profess that which may not go in vain.
I lift the pen with my right hand
And bring the diary of my life so far towards me.
I ask the flame of knowledge burning before my eyes
Where do I go from here … what is my vocation?
Answer it gave me naught
But its bright words burnt my paper thrice;
Upon the words I wrote it bade them
Leap from slumber and enter within.
Every writer of truth understands
His writings come from that one single fire
That blemishes the red wounds of a sage’s flesh for us;
Every time he lifts his pen
To pour out his hearts yearnings onto the papyrus,
His duty towards mankind is sealed in it.
A writer’s vocation lies within the multitude of souls that can hear;
That taste the sound of the lover of the saints upon his pen nib.
Who yearns by his words for the betterment of mankind
And for the panacea required to soothe that never answered question
within his bleeding chest … who am I, what am I.
To such a writer as this, the vocation is not easy;
It pricks him at every step and stings him at every sentence.
For he does not speak of his own self but
From the flame that leaps out from the core of his blood
And the divinity of His love.
For he speaks the truth which can never be heard,
Of what no one speaks and yet wants to know.
He writes of the misery of death
The simplicity of the pure;
The witness of the Christ and the duty of one’s birth;
Of the rights of men and women….of the blind and of those who cannot see
Of young dying souls and of souls dying young.
Of what is truth in the death of millions and the fuss about external beauty;
Of the abortion of infants and the death of students;
For the flame that burns within the redness of existence the flame that burns up eternity.
These are the words of my vocation I pen down from my study of sacred scripture.
The flame ceases to come towards me.
O that the night never comes
That I may ponder upon the banishment of my lot
To the realm of the green vine
Which no gardener comes to prune;
To the occupation of the material realm
Cast out by the ruby flame.
But … vocation surpasses the winner
And the bride has at last met her groom;
For no man can resist … the flame that resides within.
Copyright © 2013 by Fiza Pathan