The Monologue of A Quite Stranger

By Ilma Haider

Let us go then, you and I,

Where the pavement cracks like brittle thought,

And the evening's light is sifted through

The cloudy lens of indifference.

In the heart of the city’s breath,

We pause,

A moment, but only a moment,

For there are too many moments

That slip between fingers like water.

Do I dare to dream of something more?

More than this dull gray wash of faces,

More than these brittle and broken hours,

Where the clock ticks louder than hope,

And the streetlights hum like questions unanswered?

The women come and go,

Talking of the weight of life,

Of their tiredness,

Their endless rush for meaning,

And I,

Am I one to ask for more?

What would I say?

To whom?

I have measured out my life in fragments,

In books unread and doors unopened,

In the stir of morning air and staleness of evening smoke.

Should I, with trembling hands,

Untangle the fibers of myself

And offer them as prayer?

Or is this not the way?

The night is spreading like ink across the sky,

And I have yet to grasp a single word of it.

The city sings, but it sings in riddles,

And my mouth,

My mouth has no answer.

Why do I hesitate?

Why is the world so loud with silence,

And I so small beneath its weight?

Let us go, then,

But not yet.

Not yet.

The stars are indifferent to our worries,

And the moon, she is too far away

To care.

By Ilma Haider