How Solitary Is The Moon
The shadow of a cage is too an imprisonment
I continue to become the shadow of my clothing
My hands become a part of others
The mud is now lorn
Why did the river travel on its own to the sea?
How solitary, the act of choice
Severed, I am severed from those who die
And I wake arising in the fires
I am reverberating in the stones
I am drowning in the mud, wondering which tree ahead lies
My sorrows; thy name is child
In my hands, toys in pieces
In my eyes, humanity
A multitude of bodies are asking me for eyes
I do not know where my own beginning is
The skies are younger than I
Flight does not require a landing
Whose voice do hands represent?
You will have to live with my lies
When you enter the jungle and free the birds
The lantern gets a taste of fire
I hang clothes out to dry on the roof of my person
Within my distance lies an eye
I dress myself in my pain
I, she who dresses herself in garb of fire
Should I tell you the name of my shade?
To you I give the moons of every single night.
Sara Shagufta
(Pakistan, 1954–1984)
Sara Shagufta is an enigmatic character in Pakistani literary history. There are conflicting and controversial stories surrounding both her life and her death. However, what is known is that she started writing poetry after losing her baby and being deeply struck by the callous attitude of her husband towards this tragedy in her life. It is said she was constantly in and out of mental asylums, but continued to write poetry. Shagufta had tried to take her own life on several occasions, but was saved by timely medical help. Eventually however, her struggle with herself did end, allegedly at her own hands.
