The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune’s spite; revive from ashes and rise.
Poems forever
On hope
My hopes are not always realized, but I always hope.
Ovid (BC 43-AD 18) Roman poet.
The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune’s spite; revive from ashes and rise.
Miguel de Cervantes (1547-1616) Spanish novelist, dramatist and poet.
Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings the tunes without the words, and never stops at all.
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) American poet.
Where no hope is left, is left no fear.
John Milton (1608-1674) English poet.
The darkest day, If you live till tomorrow will have past away.
William Cowper (1731-1800) British poet.
But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
Lord Byron (1788-1824) British poet.
Still bent to make some port he knows not where, still standing for some false impossible shore.
Matthew Arnold (1822-1888) British poet and cultural critic.
Cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) English poet.
Goodbye
By Habiba Khan
I saw her face
One last time in the fading light
As she whispered a goodbye
That no one could hear.
Slumber
By Kashmala Dilawar
She stood there
On the thick velvety snow
Under the bare branches
Of an old willow tree
Memories of not long ago
Rolled down her old whizened cheeks
“Baba, I’m cold,”
said the weary voice with grief.
And then, lighting another candle
She gave herself a squeeze.
“Rest well, dear father.”
She stood up to leave.
“Hope it’s warm, down where you sleep.”
Spring
By Amna Ameer
The sound of matchsticks,
Burning in the basement,
Where you once were,
Lying so still,
I couldn’t look at you,
Without you looking back,
At my withdrawn eyes,
And tarnished dreams,
I took all the pain,
Yearning for meaning,
In the mesmerism,
Of pain,
I wailed to the sky,
In the city of souls,
I gave up the carcass of mine,
I dissolved,
In the emptiness of fields,
That took me apart,
They smelt you on me,
Like the cologne,
Of your lathered body,
And bloodshot eyes,
That define my shadow,
They resonate in my sighs,
They speak of you,
And the pauses,
Placed words,
To my sentences,
To purge me of you,
But I fought in resistance,
Tell me the rationality,
Behind this love;
Explain to me,
Why I still lay,
With you?
In my secrets,
Of a past gone,
That sabotages my happiness,
Only because the love I deserve,
Isn’t coming from you,
But the flowers that wither,
They destroy in my hands,
My reckless being,
The wounds I carry,
Only haunt me,
I yet have to find,
The place between,
Love,
And absence of indifference,
I still have to unlearn,
The frivolous nostalgia,
Of springs.
Domicile
By Hiba Alamzaib
Sometimes it’s you alone who can help you
Sometimes you just stare back
At your reflection in the mirror,
Meet those sad eyes-red and watery, all blurry
Sometimes you just have to wrap
Your arms around yourself at night,
Pat your arm gently
And caress your face softly,
Consoling yourself,
Wiping off those tears.
Sometimes heaven is you, within you
Holding on to you but never leaving.
Sometimes this “sometimes”,
Changes into a long period of time
And that’s when you realise
You yourself are the one for you.
Compiled by SK
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