Growing Old by Zainab Batool (18, Pakistan)

Every night
when the dark eats up
all your peace and pleasure
through its gritted teeth,
and lets you fall prey
to your self-made grief,
Time just slowly turns the page
of this book
like a good reader.

---

It spectates you,
from the time
you cry like a child in a cradle
only to see a familiar face upon you.
To the moments you hold a girl
by her waist,
delicately kissing
the soft of her skin.

And you beg for it to go slow,
because you know you'll lose her.
Everything you own,
every loyal touch will leave,
one day.

You beg to never grow old.

You want to freeze the daylight
right when you feel
a subtle warmth
of joy,
of happiness,
of a pleasure that feels death long.

But that child in the cradle of innocence
grows old,
darling
and then
he walks the earth with a guilt
of not living his best
that he is "growing old"
and not "young."

The seasons change,
colors melt,
the shining moon gets broken
because the Time doesn't owe anyone anything.

And when the sun rises up
on the other side of the mountain,
I can't decide
if I want to grow old
or not,
like my daadi 
who, as soon as the clock strikes 8,
locks her eyes at the door,
waiting for her son.

(Translation: daadi - grandma)
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