Songs of Innocence...and a farewell

Watching explosions in Iran, ran the NYTimes caption under the photo of a guy on the rooftop of his house. And lo, my own skies posterised by blithesome fronds of palmyrahs seem to turn  tumultuous with the threatening clouds of billowing smoke. I had come to the terrace hoping to glimpse  the flocks of migratory birds making their way back to their summer roost. A good percentage of them would also  fly over Asia Minor, now embroiled in a madman's war. 

The photo was taken on 28th of February,  the first day of Israel/U.S. attacks on Iran  which took the country completely by surprise. On that very day, a U.S. missile hit a girls' elementary school in Minab killing 170 young students and teachers. Since then a few thousands have succumbed to the insentient insanity of this war, baseless, and uncalled for.

An old write-up on the draft folder catches my attention. It is dated Feb 20th, 2026, exactly eight days before the global front took on an apocalyptic amorphousness. With a battered tomorrow shoved under the pillow, people around the world start praying the rosary and quoting passages from the Book of Revelation. 

The short paragraph penned on Feb 20th and accompanied by a photo ran as follows:

February 20, 2026

"I still keep my little shard of the terrace. There I stand squinting at the horizon limned with  coconut trees; the rain glistens on white tiles and an occasional ripple breaks through the grid. There i watch the sad dripping roofs of other houses, the lean cats; a girl lining her eyes with kohl in a cracked mirror. There, sometimes a sliver of pale moon  tiptoes into my view... For, we are lovers."

As I read it now, it feels misplaced, too chaste, and platonic. 'Watching explosions over Iran' too feels like one of those misplaced captions, as though one was referring to some celebratory display of fireworks. 

Many ghosts, known and unknown shuffle through darkened corridors.  Edvard Munch's The Scream echoes through them splintering the illusion of Life. The rhythmic silence of the beating pinions above the chaos constantly rearranges itself, redistributing the weight of light, the luminosity of music, in order to chalk out new paths to a haven of safety and plenitude.

...in my own frazzled domesticated world, there is only one pristine wilderness, yet unmapped, and safe from the outliers of this wayward existence: the wilderness within. And that is where i turn to, seeking not answers, but the courage to question.



Comments

Anonymous said…
Powerful. Thanks..
April 12, 2026 at 1:14 PM
Anonymous said…
Beautifully written
April 12, 2026 at 6:43 PM
Anonymous said…
Harrowing topic. Lovely writing and a great last line on finding the fire within.
April 13, 2026 at 6:00 PM
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