‘The Fifth Week Of Fever’ by Fiza Pathan
It’s the second week running and the fifth week of fever
Ever since I read the block of cold marble stone within your heart
Your neglect and your apathy towards me is piercing my fleshy red heart as a beetroot
Why not cut it and churn out the blood as a dish fit for your anger
Keep me away for a day and keep the sun in the palm of my aching hands
They then shall burn not for the blazing gold that you gave to me was perjury
Heaven fathom the love you have not sent to me these forgotten years
Rise to the waves of the ocean and then begone
That was the way my chest heaves with sadness for you and your lot in life
Building a drawbridge across our minds is not my cup of tea anymore
Drown me if you must in the moat of crocodiles
But tell you solemnly, I will arise like a water sprout
Alas! The feverish sensation refuses to bid me adieu
Burn camphor balls around my burning body, to make the serpents die of suffocation
The fever of death will torment the poet’s pen not
The dying summer lasts only till my burning eyes close with the noon
Copyright © 2013 by Fiza Pathan
Image courtesy: Google Images/Calendar 2013 And Rose by George Hodan
https://publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=28981&picture=kalender-2013-och-steg
A link to my book on Amazon:
Beautiful poetry. Loved it, and specifically this line.
“The fever of death will torment the poet’s pen not”
I agree with Abhra! Good Job!