Tahira Parveen Poet Narrative

Notes About The Poem

The Pious Wolf of the Parish

The Pious Wolf of the Parish

The candles in the parish hall sputtered, casting long, monstrous shadows against the stone walls. There sat Abid, cloaked in the sudden, sickening reverence of the townsfolk. He wore his piety like a freshly laundered shroud, his voice a low, honeyed venom as he pointed his finger at her.
"Wickedness," he whispered, and the word hung in the damp air like rot.
It was an old trap, a familiar nightmare. He had spun this web before, burying his own black deeds beneath a mountain of fabricated sins, all laid at her feet. Now, he sat enshrined among the elders, a wolf sheltered by the sheep, his past safely buried in the dark soil of their collective ignorance. He was the architect of her ruin, yet he sat immaculate in the glow of their unearned grace.
She opened her mouth to scream the truth, but the sound died in her throat. She looked at the blank, hollow eyes of the community. They were blind. They were deaf. The heavy silence of the room told her everything: her voice was dead to them, a ghost story they had already chosen to forget.

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