Poems forever
By Bertolt Brecht
Who built the seven gates of Thebes?
The books are filled with names of kings.
Was it the kings who hauled the craggy blocks of stone?
And Babylon, so many times destroyed.
Who built the city up each time? In which of Lima's houses,
That city glittering with gold, lived those who built it?
In the evening when the Chinese wall was finished
Where did the masons go? Imperial Rome
Is full of arcs of triumph. Who reared them up? Over whom
Did the Caesars triumph? Byzantium lives in song.
Were all her dwellings palaces? And even in Atlantis of the legend
The night the seas rushed in,
The drowning men still bellowed for their slaves.
Young Alexander conquered India.
He alone?
Caesar beat the Gauls.
Was there not even a cook in his army?
Phillip of Spain wept as his fleet
was sunk and destroyed. Were there no other tears?
Frederick the Great triumphed in the Seven Years War.
Who triumphed with him?
Each page a victory
At whose expense the victory ball?
Every ten years a great man,
Who paid the piper?
So many particulars.
So many questions.
By Abid Agha
The kettle whistled a lonely tune,
As light crept slowly into the room.
Your cup sat still - untouched, aware-
Of absence hanging heavy in the air.
The chair still leans, as if you might,
Return by evening’s fading light.
The clock ticks on, but not quite right-
Its rhythm dulled by loss of sight.
Even the garden’s marigold feels out of place,
Too golden a hue for this hollow space.
I brew the tea, again pour for two;
Some habits ache when they are true.
It’s strange how morning feels so new,
Yet emptier, and hollow too,
The day after I missed you.
By Zahra Akbar
In silence, songs of hearts profound
Ascend from the void
Echoing through circles of eternities,
With the sound of your voice,
Caressing souls,
Like a master's skillful fingers
playing on his piano.
By Manail Binte Sher
I'm not,
What I seem to be.
I'm not,
What you think I am.
I might seem,
Calm,
Collected,
And real.
I might seem,
Extraordinary,
Confident,
And real.
But it's all just a facade,
I've masterfully made.
For,
In the cruel reality,
I'm just another
Humane,
Human,
Grenade.
It might not seem so,
But,
I've lost what I’ve loved,
A million times and,
I break down,
Every night.
I've given it my all,
A million times,
Yet I lose hope,
In every fight.
I've died inside,
A million times,
Hence I laud the darkness,
I've forgotten the light.
Yet,
I collect myself,
All the scattered pieces,
Then I align them perfectly,
To make a fake outline.
Just so you can believe,
I am,
What I seem to be.
I am,
What you think I am.