Manas would not witness the heaps of white paper flying
across the fenced Desert Dunes on his
routine trip.
Yet, for some strange reason, this time he took out his
Binoculars hurriedly, rattling the water bottle and story book in the backpack on
its way.
With a longer vision and a shorter breath, he could catch
hold of one of the many letters and a
glimpse of the old man in streaking dead white and a crown of red turban over.
‘For the
bread and the barter, my owed loans against the daughter;
There is an
oasis so deep, in my heart when I weep;
If you could
forgive me hence, and just for once travel across the fence;
The eyes die to see you flesh, and relieve the
fenced soul of this mesh;
Your father
is an old man now, suddenly life can betray, you know how;
My moustache no more black, but your doll still on the rack;
Stubborn I wouldn’t die in this life, for won’t
forever live in death’s strife;
If you could
Travel for my soul, and boundaries
with no role;
To see the
tears that roll often and the wrinkles that they soften;
Had this
front not been fenced, my death would not
be chanced;
Being sand,
to become the sand, the body’s matter till its end,
Can’t the
sand of its portion, flow me across and live this notion;
Pity our
sights that share the glance, but am jealous for this air with no fence;
For the men
they apart, there are souls that cannot depart,
For the men they apart, there are a few souls that could not depart.... ’,
as
Manas read this through the white paper, he glanced that Hasrat, a young woman, perhaps the daughter, was on her knees and in tears on the other side of fence.
There were
men, and well..... there are fences, Manas thought.
This post has been written and shared for the series 'Five Sentence Fiction'.
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