Hiba Memon

There will come a day when we shall

sit in silence, absolute stillness,

grey in the head and blind as a bat,

our knobbly knees and shaking hands

will search for meaning.

Under the blanket of the night sky

and the shadow of the old amaranth tree,

we will speak in tongues, unfamiliar to

most. The reasoning and reckoning

of things, of the hows and whys

as if this is the culmination

of all things, the zenith

of our journey so far.

We search for God all our lives

only to find him in the wink

of a bubbling stream, in the flutter

of a horsefly’s wing, in the slow release

of laughter and the gentle sighs of a lover.

If there was ever any impetus

to life, it was this —

to grow together,

to grow in softness.



Maybe the skies were calling you,
the birds circling overhead, calling
your name.

Maybe the storm clouds
were gathering, to celebrate your

Maybe the heavens
were being laden with feasts,

fit enough for a king.

Maybe the Earth parted in two for you,
much like the Red Sea.
and there you lay, in your canopied bed,

lush green and smiling,

adorned in white.

Maybe you jest and joke now,
with the angels up above.
A picture of health and happiness,
resting in eternal love.

I’ll always remember your
handsome face, and the
eternal warmth of your smile
for now, you remain etched in memory,

as we leave you to rest for a while.



Burst of gold, the showering sun
hanging overhead. You do not
feel the heat, only pure,
unadulterated joy.
Evenings grow long and
the days, more languid.
You relinquish in all that
this world has to offer,
you realise that grasping at
straws will not do, will not do.
You realise that in this short-lived
life there is much to be done, and
despair will not do.

Yet you wake every living day,

out of this dreary state; like the mighty amaltas in the summer sun

glistening, and growing.



We will always have the tangerine sun

and the bespectacled moon;

engaging in mirth and a tempestuous

game of hide and seek. We will always

have mini monsoons and cypress

trees, spiralling into the cloudless sky.

Seared limbs and denim jackets, the lazy

sweltering, August sun;

burning into our backs. We will always

have the silent, gilded, frosty nights

and the warm raucous laughter.

The soft smoke curling around us

as we speak, we shall always

have it all; In the mind’s eye, at least.



I watch the soft unfurling of the fisted flowers
tiny buds, competing to reach
the finish line
the slight trembling of the trees
swaying to the Northern winds
and the gathering of the crows
in the quiet, misted mornings.
There isn’t much to say except
watch with complete bewilderment
how the world as you know
in the passing of the days
in the shadow of the night
in just a blink of an eye



Hiba Memon

Hiba Memon

Third-culture kid, dividing time between the UAE and Pakistan. An engineer by the day and a writer by the night.