Search for a Lost Soul

On a single lonely night; I sought

To traverse the expanse of your soul

Finding the truth was the goal;

But regardless of the capacity of one’s might

It is irrevocably gruesome,

And most ostensibly right; this night

Will go to the borders of despair

Humble denigration will invoke thy fear

But the marrows of one’s odious being,

Will fairly insinuate odes to seeing

A simple curve on thine old countenance

To indulge one last time

In wilful abstinence; and breathe

And sigh and choke, as the servile mozo

Will extend forth his bod,

To inhale the bewitched smoke,

Of this wretched wretched world,

Where goodness is a curse,

Candour a malice, and honesty scarce.

Perhaps that is what he meant,

That shrewd mortal, so acutely went

And rendered: All that is rare

For the rare, in one’s advent

Tis not too late to forsake; to lament

The hollow existence so pathetically spent,

And seek a newer world, a brighter horizon;

For how long can dreams bear earthly compromisin’?

Ariba Pasha is driven by a deeper force: passion. She intends to use her words to make her mark in the world, for poetry is the language of the soul and uses it to transfer the beatings of her heart on paper.