Live with your belief held high, not your head, You’ll leave this world with nothing but a sigh...
Poems forever
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung above his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer’s day
Robs not one light seed from the feather’d grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad ‘mid her reeds
Press’d her cold finger closer to her lips.
Extracted from Hyperion by John Keats
By Abid Agha
In the weight of forgotten days,
lie photographs cloaked in dust,
mahogany images of laughter and love,
frozen mid-smile, mid-sorrow, mid-dream.
Each frame holds a world once vivid:
a child’s giggle at a birthday cake,
a mother’s eyes watching from the porch,
a friend waving from a train long gone.
Now faded, curled at the edges,
they whisper more than they show.
Dust gathers slowly, silently,
like time itself - unnoticed at first,
until one day, it blurs the faces
you thought you’d never forget.
And yet, you cannot throw them away.
For in every spot lies a heartbeat,
a moment that once breathed and belonged.
Photographs in the dust,
not just images,
but anchors to the souls we used to be.
By Mirub Rehman
Live with your belief held high, not your head,
You’ll leave this world with nothing but a sigh.
Guilt will grasp you on your deathbed,
As you reach the end of this dazzling lie.
By Amna Ameer
There are people
Who listen
But not with the intent
Of connecting
Or harnessing
They only listen
To judge
And gauge
And inspect the little suspicions
They have in their heads
These people
May make you feel
Unworthy
Or bare
But you must
Understand
That your vulnerability
Is true
It is a defense mechanism
To false pleasantries
That don’t feel right
In your core
Understand that their corrupt souls
Will only weigh you down
The shrivel of your being
Must not be shaken
By their nuances
And gestures
And subtle eye contacts
With time
You will rise
Above the small talk
And forced assumptions
The authenticated
Stories
Written intently
Can only be placed together
With tender hands
And delicate insights
These rushed beings
Will never understand
The power
Of brooding wisdom
And empathy
That takes birth
In eager eyes
And slow afternoons
With hearts
Wrapped carefully
In the art of being
