Her Archaeology Still Remains Unexplored! Poem by Aadil Hingorjo

Thoughts of her passionate aura embrace me
I cannot weigh the burden that she carries on
She puts before me hundreds of things
And also comes ahead with firm resolutions
But do mere resolutions sort down the issues?
I am in a deep desert of thoughts
In my heart, rush the Indusian waves
And my mind races through oceanic air
Image of her appears, disappears, & reappears
I can but just read her; I am sorry for the season
I see her standing, and when she sits down
But still her standing is noticeable
She is in confrontation with eras
Windows of her eyes are open to the sea
There is a little mist, some hopes, & a smoke
The writer inside me is in his own rhythms
It may strike her hard
It may wound her vigorous vibes
It may be brutal to her womanly sensitivity
But it also may be true to time.
I know that isn't a way blurred
She always appreciates what comes out of me
Is she a silly girl, or an inexplicable existence?
I don't know how life chats with her
I barely ask how sunshines sound her mostly
I never ask about sunsets' sensationality
I just discuss the politics
And elaborate the literary rhetorics
It may ridicule her already engaged mind
I think it is her responsibility as well
As a sociological and twentieth century's being
I unravel an intellectual rheme before her
Candle inside me wants to light a little in her
It is purely for life's sake
Life that is inaudible to many morons
Across the courtyards, we sink for hours
I feel sorry if her heart doesn't digest the doze
I wish her a miraculous life
For she believes in miracles
She's just like a virgin visit to no man's land
She in herself is an ambiguous realm
Not ambiguous actually, but a mysterious one
Accompanying all accounts, she forgets her
She's just like every mad, mistress girl
There's purity in her voice
Yes, she tells lies a little; and I testify the tales
She wants to prove sometimes
Some largely lavish loopholes
That might also not be at peace with her
Acts as an iconic lyre, but she lingers anyway
Her wintry life chases the snowy nights
She's a close conversant to the 14th moon
A kind of riverbank resonates thru her words
As if the flowers are protesting
As if the silence surrenders calmly
As if the birds too become voiceless
Strangely critical are her banks
Some serious tides suddenly overwhelm her
I feel how she yearns to hug her own breasts
& how she slides those slim fingers in her hair
Letting her on her own, I pass by soberly
But my sobriety is left driven
There in me awakens another scream
Another cry makes me restless
Another human light trades thru a dim spell
And I happen to suitcase her sentiments
Delicately I drink another literary bottle
And I humbly kneel down on my fingers
And recall some raining clouds
And poetically shower upon this screen
Stillness stares at me, ane I'm over with me
Like a historian I word down her whistles
But she's not over, and never over there
Her civilization marks inexpressible scripts
Despite divining deep into her vales, I feel that
The archaeology in her still remains unexplored!