Ali Ashar

Responsibilities race against time

as the aspirant battens down the hatches

in a small adobe house

where desert wind slips through cracked windows

and the smell of red dust lingers.

A new batch commences

like the rising sun over mesas—

harsh, unblinking, inevitable—

amid the quiet ache of family debt

and stories of forefathers

who tilled stubborn earth

that yielded more silence than grain.

 

The table is laden with umpteen books,

yet the onus of a meant-to-be persona

makes the journey cumbersome like

restless sparrows in a drought-stricken yard.

 

A tint of flashback from the past somewhat

alleviates the grim atmosphere.

The horizon witnesses

tireless nights and hopeless days

under the vast sky.

The bygone lanes of kinship dictate

the competition,

where life confronts

the aspirant’s character

between the game of vows and emotions.

 

Flowing from the brimming shores of hope

like the Rio Grande under the rain

the breeze gushes over and over

through the years.

The trajectory of coveted sunshine

eventually rips the darkness apart.