I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass....
By Walt Whitman
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood,
form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from
parents the same, and their parents
the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in
perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
By Eman Ayesha
Life was a canvas, and I sketched my dreams,
With every colour, every stroke,
A world alive with possibilities,
A life that was never a joke.
But sometimes my hand would falter,
And colours would bleed and smear,
My dreams would blur and fade away,
And my canvas would be left unclear.
Yet I never gave up, I kept on painting,
I found new colours, new ways to create,
I learned to blend and mix and layer,
Until my canvas became something great.
So keep on painting, my dear friend,
And never give up on your dreams,
For life is a canvas, and you are the artist,
And your masterpiece is waiting to be seen
By Esha Bakht
The sun has set,
the light has faded away.
I ask the moonlight
and the stars to stay.
I cannot see anything
as the darkness prevails.
O God, let light be the guidance
for the ones astray.
By Maryam Shah
It is never easy to let go.
Memories haunt,
places echo
of us once being there together.
And people ask,
“Are you two still together?”
It hurts,
it truly does.
But in time,
people find people,
memories fade,
places grow silent,
and life moves on.
But the scars,
they remain.
Forever.
By Abid Agha
They once gleamed,
gold in the sun of our youth,
edges bold and bright,
laughter ringing everywhere.
But years, like slow rain,
ate into them,
leaving silence behind
where words used to shine.
Time bit into them,
turning gold to iron.
Faces blur,
voices echo like static.
I hold firm what’s left,
and even the rust
is warm in my hands.
Now they sleep beneath the rain,
wrapped in the scent of rust.
Once, they sang in sunlight,
but now their voices drag through the dark
like chains across stone.
I do not clean them,
for fear the shine
would erase the truth
that only rust remembers,
and our unbroken memories
Bearing the beautiful weight of time.
