#Poetry ‘This Is The Sound Of My Veins’ by Fiza Pathan

This Is the Sound Of My Veins

by Fiza Pathan

Listen to the music; it is jarring and very deep.

It is resonating a distortion that drives the musician into a fit.

The electric guitar squeals into a painful sob

And the bass is meditating with the beat.

It is the sound of the devil, and the cry of the devil in my head.

This is a distorted and contorted life,

Where everything is not as it should really be.

The melody lifts me higher,

But the second I take my breath the ecstasy slips away.

To be in the passion of the moment I have to hold on tight

And press my face upon the speakers bleeding voice.

Disturbing sounds I hear,

I perceive a wail from the echoless violin in my brain.

The dancer cannot feel the beat of the rhythm,

But yet she dances like a joyful peacock in the light of thunder.

The lightning strikes my guitar,

And the vibrations it electrocutes through my being

Is driving me to insanity and bulldozes me

With an injection of hell in heaven’s Earth.

This is the ultimate reason to be included as a musical note

Mathematical symbols are floating in the ocean of distress.

This is the music of paradise,

Without accompaniment to raise the singing voice

To the acclaim of one and all.

The dancer misses not once the flow of the notes,

She squeals with delight

In a dark room full of the moans from the Abyss.

This is the song of the poet,

And the confusion of the elements in the holy piper’s flute.

As he seats himself upon the heavens,

Dictating to the immortals his last requiem.

Men often wander in the lost emptiness of space,

And hear no sound of this world’s departure.

Rest assured the gracious dancer will still dance in the night,

And beat the drum of darkness with sweat and blood.

This is the pedestrial of the omnipresent vocal prayer

That created you and me and this perilous surge to die to the beat.

So with the dancer we can cut some veins from our bodies,

And use them as strings for the viola.

Rub the oil of the blest candle upon our parts

And with the rod of silent abulations curse our stupidity.

Let the dancer rest now while it yet does not shine,

For tomorrow’s sunrise will never set again with the music.

This is the sound of music

This is the sound of time

This is the sound of space:

This is the sound of my veins.