By Ayesha Malik
The small cracks
Let in the light
Yet the openings
Are lined with silt
They singe lightly
The ridges of stone
The fumes are hot
The cracks burst open
The pieces lay scattered
Each shines in its own
An emancipating sight
The beauty of the vessel
Is laid across the street
The fragments trodden upon
In every meet and greet.
By Saba
Whirling my body
In spirals of nothingness
I have become a dervish…
Deep in my thoughts
I dance in trance
Frantic and feverish…
Floating in divinity
Completely content
I woke up from my reverie…
And now I feel free
To sing, to dance
And to live all my breaths…
The self-created stress of pain
Left my shoulders
And finally I learnt
How to love myself…
By Asma Zainab
Can I matter just this once
and not be overshadowed
by the doubts you hold so dear
Can I believe in a future
where you looking at the sky
isn’t something I’d envy
The day you listen to my stories
and not the woes of the lonesome moon
The day you hold flowers in your hand
and not between the pages of your journal
Will there be a day our roads meet and intersect
just like the crossword puzzles you love to solve
Will you ever remember to forget
or will you still prefer to hold the hands
that leads to new lands
By Ali Asghar Ghani
How are you feeling? I asked
being dragged around
in the dark and stormy winds
like a kite
whose string is in the hands of black thoughts
By Mehma Kunwar
I have always been a slow person
slow in eating, slow in reading
slow in walking, slow in reacting
and I could always justify this
I tend to count the number of times I chew
as well as the blessings in my mouth
I tend to challenge each word I read
and think what’d happen if it was the other way
I tend to observe the world while walking
as well as the wonders left ignored
I tend to give people chances with their stances
and believe in love, no matter how broken it is
But I’m also slow in calming my heart
which is faster than light, dumb as a rock.
my brain reads and gets rejection, my love, but
it takes time to make the heart understand
that slow and steady, don’t always win the race.
By Laraib Zakir
Maybe holding onto is tiring,
Excruciatingly draining of what is left.
It’s a little melancholy that goes a long way,
Something that withers you away.
Although wilted, you still want it to stay.
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