Come in, if you want, there is no one holding the door. Be careful as you cross the threshold, I can no longer guarantee that it won’t fall on your head.
Come in, if you’re bold enough, to let the wind cross you as you enter, chilling to the bones and residing comfortably. You see, there are broken windows all around.
Come in, if you’re not afraid to cut yourself from the shards of glass strewn across the dusty, matted floor. The peeling colour of the walls may dampen your mood but I’m sure they’ll do what needs to be done.
Come in, if you’re not afraid to dust the old bookshelf that now stays untouched and ignored, no one wants to read poetry anymore, poetry which is the food for soul, no one believes in it.
Come in, if you’re a seasonal visitor, making a temporary camp as storms rage nearby. It’s a shelter for you, a safe haven if you will. For me you’re the west blown leaf, lost its path long ago, seeking solace in empty pots and pans, crying through broken windows and doors.
Shifa Naseer 