When I had a vision of the past, Certain flashbacks came from the start....
Poems forever
By Faiz Ahmed Faiz
My heart, my fellow traveler
It has been decreed again
That you and I be exiled,
Go calling out in every street,
Turn to every town.
To search for a clue
Of a messenger from our Beloved.
To ask every stranger
The way back to our home.
In this town of unfamiliar folk
We drudge the day into the night
Talk to this stranger at times,
To that one at others.
How can I convey to you, my friend
How horrible is a night of loneliness
It would suffice to me
if there were just some count
I would gladly welcome death
If it were to come but once.
Translation by Hamid Rahim Sheikh
By Amna Ameer
How many springs
Have passed
Since your passing
What remains behind
Are relics
Of a life
I wish I knew
How to save
What feels like
A ritual
Is indeed
A premeditated
Funeral
That sets out
With my heart
Every morning
And searches for you
All night
There’s no story
Behind lost souls
Only incomplete scripts
Unwritten
With every dusk
I wonder
Does dawn know?
What happens
In the shrivelled memory
Of winter’s past?
By Esha Bakht
When I had a vision of the past,
Certain flashbacks came from the start.
Some memories were pleasant, and some sad,
Some so joyful, they made me glad.
All these years, I had many ups and downs,
At times, I lost my smile and wore a frown.
But how thankless I have been—
To overlook the blessings I have seen.
By Zahra Zafar
Stains on his cheeks
Body smelling, it reeks
Shivering winter on his back
Burning summer in his eyes
Shattered dreams at his feet
He smiled at what he found—
A burnt, soggy scrap of food
Isn’t it enough to lighten the mood?
He dug further—
Look what it is:
A broken, half-open
Little car,
The one he had seen
Just from afar.
He smiled again,
His chapped lips spreading
With pain.
He dug further,
Looking for another
Treasure.
He found a book
With wonderful pictures.
Pages turned and wrinkled,
His dimples appeared.
Isn’t today his lucky day?
He picked his book
Like you pick flowers,
Holding it against his chest.
He remembered something he won’t forget—
A cold and cruel voice danced in his head:
“Education isn’t for children like you.
You are born to collect trash, not books.”
His hands shook, and his little heart dropped.
Heavy tears escaped his eyes.
He threw his book like you throw flowers.
Then he stood trembling and began
to run away
From his hope and dreams of
moving far away.
