Aryan Shafat

The plane begins its descent past the customary carpeting of sepia clouds,

with its fortress of mahals, brimming with Earth’s treasure, gardens and illusions from the eye of the vulture’s flight, past the roadside dhabas, past the colossal statues and solitary temples, dotting the horizon resting comfortably atop Bygone mosques,

A fading comet trail of snippets from the halls of the Mughal Kings remain immortally enshrined in memory’s space.

Guarded by the Biting Wind,

A perfect luminous ball with deep, wide craters and spots, like freckles-

Past giant mountains, which collide with the blue linings of the abyss,

On a sun baked plateau, infused with the hue of stained blood and brown bread, caressed by the waves of the immortal spirit, which

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock,