Womb Of Silence Poem by Yasmin Hemmat

The Womb of Silence

Beneath a sky stitched with shattered words,
A city crumbles, its streets a blur of smoke.
The air hums with the rustle of forgotten names,
As voices scatter like ash in the throat of a dying oak.

The buildings weep, but their tears are mute,
Empty windows gaze into a mirror who woes.
A man walks, searching for Absolute,
Each step leaving behind a trace of broken words.

A clock with no hands looms and hides,
Each chime a dirge, a heartbeat that lies.
Time here is a ghost with hollow eyes,
Dragging its chains across marble walls.

The clocktower sings in a language erased,
Its chimes are murmurs of a tongue once known.
Each note slips into the cracks of the earth,
Where fragments of meaning are overthrown.

A woman stands on the threshold of absence,
Her mouth sewn shut with threads of night.
She speaks with her eyes, but no one listens,
For her words have fallen into an endless plight.

The ground cracks open, spilling ink,
It stains the soil, yet no one can read.
The letters dissolve as pens shriek,
Each syllable unmade, each sentence bleed.

A child laughs with innocence,
Her hands outstretched to catch the bird.
But all she grasps are the shards of silence,
The echoes of a sign differed.

In the silence, time wears its own name,
Each second undone, each memory torn.
The city fades, like a forgotten dream,
And in this place, only the void is born.

The clockmaker wakes to find the sun in his pocket,
Its warmth spilling between his fingers.
He smiles as the world rewinds,
And time dances backward into the womb of silence.