Resurrection – a prose poem by Hein Min Tun

January 31, 2025 | World Inker II | 0 Comment | 9:05 am

He smothers sun laced hours in the fabric of slumber sewn with tranquil twilight. He misses out on breakfast and lunch. No heed is paid to the alteration of his bio clock; just some tongue-slipped remarks on his sleep spree from his inmates. As dates shed like leaves, the terrains of his skin become suffused with dusk, then deepen into turbid brown. His face has dimmed and darkened, and the stature shrunk.... though it is crammed with a prodigious lot of sleep through manifold suns. It is not that it has thinned in a fine symmetry; the change has been a grotesque shrink.

When the quiet has swallowed the dark, his irises are full of the sinews of the morning star. But he soaks the crescent of the night in exodus of grief, dipping it deep and turning it soggy. Then the mushy ages of the night saturated with recurrent tear rains succumb to doused shreds, then into inutile ruins, morphing into oblivion bit after bit. On some nights he has attempted to turn in earlier than usual; but, the objective gets confounded. He is floundering in a labyrinth blindfolded, reaching for the eluding sleep. Garlic cloves are found laid in a heap beneath his pillow along with a bottle of sedatives half occupied. The garlic cloves can suffice to cook a meal. Before he tried to drift off afloat into burdenless ease, he put one garlic clove on the first night, another on the second night and so on. But it just resulted in the proliferation of them. The endeavour still goes vain.

At his hair that has now been transfigured into a crew cut incompatible with his visage, he stares in the mirror..... in silent longing; suppressed anguish flurries in a crescendo on the gloss of his vision. In tenderness he pats on what is now a clear forehead. How he misses his tresses that used to dangle a little way on his forehead. Since his boyfriend disappeared taking spring and summer, he has shedded what he could of his material self to conceal the lustrous reflection of the past, the way that hardly aligns with his fancy, as he cannot afford to replace his entire soul tattered with lacerations.

Of late he has been scribbling making ink his personal friend to confide to; drifting streams of words touched in nuanced hues have emerged dancing over inner plains, plateaus and sunless ravines, traversing distant folds. Such a poetic solstice that stretches its sallow vacant pages from its mild winter onto warm spring lawns. The poetic solstice he has been watering with new love, sweats, blood and tears has all of a sudden bloomed into a fragrant flower called living.