By Sara Teasdale
There will come soft rain and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire,
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree,
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
By Laraib Zakir
Why is it that,
That when I’m no more,
You would come here more often.
Hesitate for a moment
And then sit there,
Beside me as if I were there, too.
Why is that,
That you would dust off my rustic diary
And try to find your name inside
But no, you wouldn’t be able to
Because, my dear,
You never learned to read between the lines, did you?
Why is it that,
That you would walk towards my window,
Open the curtains and look up at the sky
Just like I did,
But the sky wouldn’t be like that anymore.
Would you know then, that I always liked it dark?
Why is it that,
That before picking up my vessel of dried flower petals,
You would stare long into it, into nothingness
And then get hold of a few, crumbling petals.
Feel them getting dusted off as you dearly hold them.
Will you then realize the fragility of life?
Why is it that,
That you would sift through all my writings,
Torn pieces of poetry, reckless scriptures of prose and wrecked thoughts
And try to create meaning out of those
But my dear,
Did chaos ever made sense to you?
Why is it that,
That you never came to know,
It was you, all along
And then also you weren’t
Maybe because there was everything
But under the enchantment of oblivion.
Why is it that,
That when I’m no more,
You would come here more often.
By Hira Nasir
Sometimes things may not go the way you want,
Sometimes the path looks long,
The journey so difficult.
Sometimes the goals seems impossible,
The struggle so hard.
Sometimes the efforts feel useless,
The time seems to stop.
During those times,
Remember one thing,
Time passes in seconds
And
This too shall pass.
By Mashaal Farid
Gathered some ashes
Yet her coldness warm
Blazing those eyes
A fire outta storm
Into fierceness when burnt
Sorcery that she learnt
Holding to it tight
Raising
Therein madness to a height