Dilruba Ahmed


Mockingbird: why so mournful your song?
Do you mock us or do we imitate your song? 

When we lose our path to You its an endless Fall.
Will the next wine glass help us reinstate your song? 

Election season and like spoiled fruit, words fall.
Leaders pluck sweet words to obliterate your song. 

The ground is cold but our march remains strong.
Such leaden notes, bird, against the freight of your song. 

The flock writes tunes a bird alone could not have sung.
Must be Heaven's script!… if we could translate your song. 

Your heart is prisoner, caged as a bird.
The heart monitor’s chirp now dictates your song. 

Trapped, yet you live.  Masha’Allah, God is great!
So they say.  In times of loss, our pain muffles Your song. 

Skeptics question You as they tend to their wounds.
Broken bones, hearts, citizens—why not underrate your song? 

What the gods did not take, they broke.
No words left, now, to recreate your song. 

No heaven exists.  Where will we meet when we’re gone?
What riven voice will lead me to the gate? Your song? 

Demigods, dervishes, devils all drunk on Your wine—
What melody can tell us our fate but Your song? 

Voice of the heart, not one tune rings true.
What burnt-out stars now constellate your song?