Mornings

Every morning
is a sadistic thing;

the sacred mystique
of a dream
is stripped naked
by the sharp claws
of the sunbeams.

Every morning
is an incarnation
of a human being
into a primitive beast
as the stories bark out
of our tv screens.

Mornings don’t keep
the night’s promise;
they are the worst shoulders
to cry on.

Mornings exploit the dark
knowing not
the tables
are soon going to turn,

come dusk.

Nights

Nights are eerily strange these days, the dark just doesn’t sit in. It hovers above like a vulture looking for prey. But I cannot feed it. Dreams do not die anymore; they do not exist. I can’t figure out the strangeness of it all; the dark, my erstwhile refuge refuses to sit by me, to wrap me in its fold. It rather lurches to peck me for something I do not have. 

Random Tweets

Who cares for quality when one is not even able to string two decent lines in to a a blogpost! So I better stop this nonsensical wait for a poem to pour or some concentration to muster in a prose. I better share with you my random mind that I tweeted away in the span of a fortnight or so.

  • There’s a certain North star that I’m in love with for the conspicuous glitter it has; Its heart might have caught a bigger fire!
  • the bigger the fire the brighter the face!
  • If only we could erase our sorrows from the slate of our mind! If only we could write ourselves all over again!
  • Could I rise from the ruins; wish I could grow wings like a phoenix!
  • I’ve become a cynic; a terrible one at that!
  • Raith say buth na bana aey meray achay fankaar; aik lamhay ko teher, may tujhay pathar la dooN!
  • So, where’s my galaxy when the sun’s sunk into the horizon?
  • Passing through a weird phase that has the potential to make or annihilate my inner being; wish I metamorphose to something good!
  • Dont succumb to vanity; Cling on!
  • As if someone’s clipped the wings of my imagination; I cant get out of the box to write and think! I’m dying to write something, really!
  • Gimme Thy blessings! Gimme the fertility of thoughts!
  • The sun is breathing its last! Lemme absorb its dying beauty in my eyes!
  • I love it when the orangish tinge of the dying sun reflects in my eyes!
  • safar dushwaar hay lakin; tumhari yaad kay gul; raah may khushboo lutatay hain
  • I was ‘optimistook’ hence am a pessimist!
  • The world tastes me porridge every time I’m high on the wine of dreams!
  • Give me some food for thought; I’m hungry since eternity!
  • Am not a cannibal but I still have the crave to hold your quivering heart and taste whether it tastes my love! 😛

The death of word, verse and dream

The malaise sat into my senses and trickled exactly into the lacunae left by the departed dreams. Now I feel I’d shortly bid adieu to whatever remaining links I have with the world. I feel like I have been living whatever Mr. Moeen Nizami said in the words below;

Hamaray lafz

aaghaz e marasim may tau kuch ma’soom say logo’n ko

bayhad achay lagtay thay

na janay in may kya kya tha, buhut mashoor kun thay woh

magar woh lafz jhootay thay, unhay tauqeer kya milti.

Hamaray shaer aaghaz e marasim may tau kuch ma’soom say logo’n ko

bayhad achay lagtay thay

woh dil darya kay mauti thay, adab may ghair mamooli izafa thay

magar woh shaer khotay thay, inhay ta’seer kya milti.

Hamaray khawb, aaghaz e marasim may tau kuch ma’soom say logon ko

bayhad achay lagtay thay

magary woh khawb andhay thay

inhay ta’beer kya milti.

Yeh anjam e marasim kay marahil hai’n

shikast e lafz o shaer o khawb kay yeh dil garifta aayeenay dil kay muqabil hai’n

In Love For The Night

Slumber in the shades
of your locks is naivete
hence I walk deep in
to the core of your soul
to heal my dreams away
from the piercing claws
of the sunbeams.

Night, o’ night,
why can’t you fight
that big, burning beast
who gnaws at your dark self
bit by bit, reducing you
to nothing.

Unlike you, I won’t
expose you to the perils
of the day; come dwell
in my craving chest
till you gain enough might
to wipe the false purity of white
off the face of the earth.

Internally Displaced In The War On Terror

Our house, the mixture of
mud and stones,
was feeble, yet it homed
our aspirations
in all the moods of life;
when the sun smiled,
or the clouds roared,
or the sky wept
or the winds howled.

It didn’t crumbled
with natural blows
but the man-made woes,
in the shape of shells
of metal and mortar
that over it fell
it could shield us no more

Survival took us by the hand
to a refugee camp and we
were stamped as I.D.P’s.

Our dreams, inhumed in
our rubbled home, scream
to call us back; they cry
when we beg for the bits of life.

We cannot wait to redeem
ourselves by helping our home
to stand on its feet.
We pray for the beast of
violence to retreat.

The wounds of our soul
could only be healed
with the cure of peace
in our bruised Swat.