An Ode To The City

By Fahima Nahid

I don’t know who wrote too many odes to their cities. But to the last one who stayed, the city wrote in all tears.  It talked about how we shared the same ache, a little different from those who left. The city didn’t fleet through, it was rusted by seasons while waiting for homecomings. 

I have my own tales about my city. I told her that I’m now not waiting on anybody, for I’m tired of counting hands slipping through mine. I told her that I stayed because I never had to go anywhere. I told her that I came to her with joys and not accomplishments, and I've just been here for as long as I can remember. It asked me if I'd leave too. And I said I didn't wish to, but if I do, just that I had to.

The city has now grown old and a home, people have forgotten to return to. 

But the city will outlive its people, and when the memories are long gone, it'll tell people how autumn never left and wretchedness just stuck by.

By Fahima Nahid