Libre Magazine

A postman
Defeated a million times by the days of his own life
Wrapping a stinky coat around his aging shoulders
Sitting in a tired, melancholic post office
Is thinking

One can never forget the soft touch of someone’s hands

Its been decades
I used to write to her

Sitting at the corner of a shiny night
In that hazy glitter of a pointed moon
To her I would write
All the chores of today
All the hopes of tomorrow
And fasten those silent conversations to an even more silent piece of paper
I would go to her door to drop it off

She would take the letter from me
And I
For just that very moment
Would touch her hand
And let that soft ray of a human touch
Sink into my fingers

But fingers today
Don’t write letters
They type emails

Today, one sits in front of a shiny box
Presses a few buttons
And all the conversations
In an instance
Roam from one door to another
And sometimes
Same words
Knock at too many doors to make a meaning

They don’t write letters anymore

Holding that fading memory of a soft touch
Clutching his palms ever so tight

That old gloomy postman
Is thinking
I wonder how
People feel each other anymore

The End

Again, this is originally an Urdu poem, translated into English. And thus losing quite a bit in translation.