A lot of my ghazals have explored the havoc of dukkha, or karmic suffering. In a way my life has been a study of this phenomenon, for I have striven to gain insight into its workings enough to maybe begin to pull free of it. But for most, myself likely included, even this process takes many comings and goings.
Havoc
Why are grown men sighing? Fear is dim by nature.
Why are children crying? War is grim by nature;
Angry hornets swarming—countless stinging voices;
Kingdoms manifest a battle-hymn by nature.
In this swelling madness, hearts are weighed to breaking;
Overwhelming sadness runs abrim by nature.
Rains can never cleanse the earth of all our bloodshed,
Blades and bullets slaying round her rim by nature.
Those who wake from dreaming, like the fading seagull,
Leave no tracks in parting, flying trim by nature.
Most are lost in chaos, like the flood-tossed salmon,
Helpless bound to homing where they swim by nature.
Providence, though gentle, has been known to ravage—
You will learn, Zahhar, to know her whim by nature.
This is my 106th ghazal.
