BRIDGES ARE IRON,OR QUITE WOOD
I buckled, for I was not cast iron,
But born and left to rust. The weary weight
Of the wheels that broke me has now begun
Its vilest work. Scapegoat furnished by fate,
I am scrapped with haste and glee.
Mocking laughter rises like hills, subsides
In earthquakes leaping water turns to song.
On the foam of time each stray fragment rides
To oblivion, a flash in the throng,
For itself a synecdoche.
About the Author
Hibah Shabkhez is a writer of the half-yo literary tradition, an erratic language-learning enthusiast, and a happily eccentric blogger from Lahore, Pakistan. Her work has previously appeared in Wellington Street Review, Black Bough, Across The Margin, Borrowed Solace, Ligeia, Cordite Poetry, and a number of other literary magazines. Studying life, languages and literature from a comparative perspective across linguistic and cultural boundaries holds a particular fascination for her.