Like A Season Goes By ..

The flowers on your

embroidered dopatta would

remain fresh,

(like the ones I would place

in your locks)

soaked in the midnight rains

of your eyes;

now, sighs, that formed

the thick rain-clouds

are no more to rise

as you trample the wilted

leaves of our blooming love

evoking thoughts

of an autumn that came too soon

P.S: I was taken by a pleasant surprise to see a publication after quite some time.


Writing Melancholy

When the ferocity of pain

pierces the bounds of reason,

gushing in to the realms

of my mind,

and floods the corridors

of my heart;

when it rises up the levels

of strangulating heights

and just when I’m about

to drown in its tides,

I hold on to my pen

which inks the excessive

water, shaping it

to words and phrases.

Thus I’m unburdened

but the brazen words

never cease to invoke

sympathy, as though

the pain was maltreated.

Volcanic Pain

It cannot be tamed;
the pain of love.

Subdued, it may seem
for whiles in between
the volcanic eruptions.

And the raging streaks
of lava flow down the cheeks
of a lover, tracing burning lines,
to soothe.

A heart in a volcanic range
could only treasure the pain–
which flames a dying love.


The Light Of Tears

Hopes exude en masse

when night befalls

the avenues of life.

The horizon mourns death

of the Sun wrapping itself

in a darkish shawl.

A million eyes inhabiting

the milky way peep down

through the dark,

crying like stars.

Spotting me here, a pair

descends steps of the air

in a hundredth of a second,

lending me what

my eyes require.

‘The dawn is silhouetted near’,

says the light of my tears.

Inspired by Mohsin Naqvi’s verse,

Mohsin taloo-e-ashk daleel-e-sahar tau hay,

shab kat gayee charagh bujha dena chahiye


One Sided Love

A toil of eternity

consumed me to

dig a hole in an

unyielding heart,

for the phantom

of your love to

bury it in.

A certain Farhad

did it to a stubborn

mount to sprout

a stream of love.

Somewhere deep

within, a fountain

of tears, bears testimony

that I’m the same.

Love needs to be

explored, not inhumed.

I wish you were

my shirin.