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Ehsan Elahi Ehsan

There is a sort of recollection

Which comes to man creeping

When it finds him all alone

And shows him again

What kinds of beautiful moments

And what shining pearls it has

Into its lap which displays

With all its artistry and skill

And then it takes him

To the streets of love

And putting him on its shoulder

Takes him to its own dream land

With all loving passions

And caressing hands

It makes him forget

All the bitter realities of life

And when it departs

It gives him a new message

Full of hope and courage

And inspires him to live boldly

To drink the bitterness of time

Taking it an ingredient of life

It teaches him how to sew

All the wounds he has received

It teaches him to enjoy the nearness

Of the people around him

And instigates him to burn

In the farness of the gone-by friends

It teaches him that he has to accept life

As it is!

We call such a recollection

The recollection of the past

When it departs

It endevours to refresh those pictures

That are faintly staying on the curtain

Of our sad eyes, with so many colours

And with such a dexterity

That all those faint pictures are renewed

And vividly seen by us again

There is another kind of recollection

Which shows its presence

In the thickly woven gathering

In noisy meeting of multitudes

In a very crowded an busy room

In such a mob, it finds a person

Of her own choice and then

It makes him to rise from there

It takes him to a silent corner of the room

It strings such thoughts into his mind

As a newly married bride

While sitting on her wedding bed

Tries to pick out silently all those thorns

That time had pierced into her heart

And then, before this man

A chain of the frightening rocks appears

And in such bewilderment he feels

That there is not a single person

In the whole populated world

In all the multitudes and clustered meetings

Whom he can call his own

In this silent corner of the room

Placing his head on his knees

He begins to remember

All the departed persons

And all the lovely places

And all the beautiful moments

He begins to fumble

In the casements of his eyes

In the same manner as

A blind man tries to see some shadow

In the deep and vast darkness

Then in such a loneliness

He begins to think of writing

An elegy in their memory

In this crowded gathering

Where people are chatting and enjoying

He does not find any company

And a boring loneliness begins to sting him

This is another sort of recollection he has!

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