My Favourite Swing

In the park is my favourite swing,

Busted, cracked yellow, rusty little thing,

It screeches and sings as I swing it higher,

Tearing through the wind, slashing through the afternoon sun spread like a rug,

It bears no grudge for carrying my weight,

Neither, my dark thoughts upset its gait,

Nor, my mirthful laughter at my wingless flight unfazes it,

It has a friendliness, a perception beyond the ordinary,

As if it knows my soul and approves of it,

Is it because, it’s made of crude iron and therefore inanimate,

Bound by chains to that very place?

Or it might be that my little friend has learnt the art,

Of carrying its burden without feeling it?

The Song of the Sufi Masroof