میں اگر زیست کی

اس کہانی کو

تصنیف خود کررہا ہوں

تو کردار میرے بنائے ہوئے

کیوں نہیں ہیں،

 

یہ کہانی ورق در ورق

باب در باب

میرے تصور کے برعکس

تبدیل ہوتی رہی ہے،

 

میرا احساس خود مجھ کو

جبری مشقت کا قیدی

بنائے ہوئے ہے،

 

مگرآسمان محبت میں

ہلکی سی جنبش ہوئی ہے

اور مجھ کو یقیں ہے

میرے حصے کی روشن کرن

میرے زنداں کی جانب

روانہ ہوئی ہے۔

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Words in agony

Quenchless words flap their broken wings

but they fall short every time they try a flight

from the dry, rigid terrain of my brain;

their squeaking beaks pierce holes in my soul

yet their pain remains confined.

Clouds cover my thoughts but it seldom rains.

Instead they languish in travails, I pray they be dead

lying in the deathless embrace of the waiting white sheets.

Nowshera Resolves

The river Kabul caressed me
through centuries of our intimacy;
our love was always young
like spring blooms in the new city.

I would sail on its back
or fish in the serenity of its heart
before the watershed–

drunken high on torrential rain,
almost insane,
the river rose to claim
the lives of my folk;
gobble my children,
plunder my crop.

But I shall not let the flood
moisten my eyes;
I’m the one
who divinity wanted to possess
with the rage of love.

Progression Of An Elegy

A poem is coming;
oozing through a tiny opening
of the block —

a bullet hole
from the left to the right hemisphere
in the skull of this Waziristan child.

A poem is coming
wrapped in a blood-stained sheet
upheld in a charpoy
over the shoulders of the bereaved
of a drone strike;

is coming,
screaming to be heard,
staggering under crimson curlicues,
intruding onto the blank peace,
of your apathy.