The Urnfield

By Hooriya Fatima

There exists a graveyard Forgotten within the

abandoned walls Unvisted since eternity And ignored by

 the Lamentors But I often visit there, 

As only I know, 

The mournful death-tale of each. But I shed no

 sorrow Or drop a flower by, 

For it would seem that my remorse is still. The hitchhikers

will never ponder, It's only me who wanders, 

Amidst the wrenching graves I never fail to notice, 

How broken the walls are

And none outside shall ever know, How they bleed from

the inside Nor will they ever know Why the burnt grass

isn't ash yet. It's me who buries them, 

Often alive. 

I don't call it a heart anymore. 

It's an urnfield. 

Of unalived hopes and dreams.

By Hooriya Fatima