Ink-stained fingers trace worn maps,
a cartography of yearning.
Not for lands uncharted,
but for the whisper, the legend,
the ephemeral meeting of sun and moon.
They call it the Limbo Line,
a sliver of impossible twilight,
where day bleeds into night,
and shadows dance with light.
Heart a compass, love its needle's pull,
a poet of passion, a restless soul,
I chase this celestial embrace,
hoping within its fleeting grace
to find the essence, the life of light.
Is it the fiery kiss of dawn,
or the cool, pearlescent glow
of a moonlit meadow, bathed in snow?
Perhaps it's the flicker of a candle's flame,
a lover's touch, whispered in the dark,
or the shared laughter that breaks the gloom,
a symphony played in every room.
The Limbo Line, a metaphor it seems,
a reminder that true light isn't a place,
but a balance, a harmony divine,
where darkness and brilliance entwine.
And maybe, just maybe,
when I stop searching the skies,
I'll find the light I crave has always been,
a constant ember burning within.
-Rashid Ali Ghazipuri