Poems & People

what if poems could be symphonies, and people their orchestra?

Peshawar

Fore the last day sets upon our silence,
we shant leave light whilst saving grace,
but falter and falter until such violence
shall fill our souls beyond past’s trace
and for our wounded and our departed
we shant leave light whilst saving grace,
but madden our gentle and placid hearted
resolve until madness can mark our place.
Do not mourn falling children of babel
leave not this light whilst saving grace,
but in sought vengeance do freely revel
and let not that night our freedom efface.
Wallow and over in such anguish again
that light may pity before it must fade
that night may fear your dark and then
let blood for blood be what is paid.

Opiumistan

Contempt has’t seed, and for loam, that nation;
windswept worthless by waste land’s whisper,
thirsting if not, then too drunk on privation,
to liberate the lesser souls from its elixir.
From wine, white to red, and ecstasy, only woe,
drawing now and ever, the tragic art of war,
to which hath fallen many, too many without foe;
souls of better men, whom contempt is not for.

Midnight Express

Each dusk from hope outworn by day
a dawn is dreamt of as I lay,
yet bares it through not hourly veils
its visage for it night conceals,
instead what rushes through the dark
and sings out ceaseless as a lark
tis the midnight express steaming
keeping me from thusly dreaming;
Nowhere from and nowehere to
burdened by a soul nor reason,
it travels endless deserts through,
restless hermit fears no season.
In moments black and hours unholy
it awakens me and reminds me solely;
“rest can never come from resting
dawns are dreamt to not dreamt of,
life is from one breath nor many,
hope is worn by age and wisdom,
fear is for fools, sages and men
as freedom lies in the dark unknown.”

Akaasi 21: Muse

To each his wont, each man his want,
and to each muse, her silent might
with which her lover she does haunt,
his rest of days, and all his nights.

Winds of Change

Quiver the leaves while bathed in orange
breath of the winter dawn and its sun,
quiver for now, then without abhorrence
do fall in the arms of fate, they are done,
while known not to you O wearied child
is yonder thy lattice, weaved by the pane,
are the winds of change, of fate, unmild
embraced yet hither unfelt all the same.
Painting the walls a capricious vermilion
its cadence, time, and its time, this dawn
the hour of change sits upon that pillion
which for a steed has our fate, now drawn.
They shall not return, if left unheeded,
not for our children or theirs when needed
the winds of change once left shall heave
no longer O wearied, O wearied believe.

A Love Forgotten, Of Which I Wondered

I wonder if the sound of silence is, falling of a dewdrop late,
I wonder if the sound of patience is, waiting in the aisles of fate,
I wonder what eludes all reason, words aramaic written on my wall,
I wonder if the parting leaves of autumn know the secrets of fall,
for this wall is my companion, to indolent skies I pray,
heavens that heed no worship and Idols shaped out of clay,
I wonder why the Ha’it ul Buraq venerates Babylon to seem Holy
yet the cherubim guarding life’s tree, forbids me to bathe in your glory,
where light mates with true darkness, where a ship mates with its shore,
lies my event horizon the sight of you save for your door,
I wonder if the sound of hope is, my soul that sings evermore,
I wonder if the sound of tragedy is, mourning a dying love sore,
upon my wall, the aramaic, I do wonder if I should read it,
reads it Lo! “ever and always, the meaning of life shall be zenith”.

Ramz al Sumud (Hope of Palestine)

Of life who bears the burden, who
of liberty sought must carry too.
By nations, dubbed who is a mother,
of freedom, dubbed a lover true.
With no home who roams the valley
gathering olives from Nablus’ fields
lights its bark to kindle her galley
which victuals for her unborn yields.
Of Gaza, its soul, is barred this dove,
to violence returns a rebellion of love,
shall birthen when our dream unknown,
she, the Ramz al Sumud our own.

Dark Water’s Game (The Flood)

I still hear the sound of its silent march
reaching and rising, that dark waters game.
Drowned the dreaming, it, always shall parch
my sore hearted throat, all morrows the same.
Tide into tide and into tide rolled darkness
until of what remained I could draw only death,
floating in my hours, in my gaze thoughtless
soulless those vessels of life sans breath.
There shall not ever, from that lifelessness
come to remembrance pasts visage untainted
nor shall emerge, from that endlessness
a hope which to hope may be acquainted.
Yet I do not mourn the many fields now lost
nor the memories reddened by the river of mud
not even my ones kindred or their life it cost
but the fact that I remained to witness the flood.

The Wisdom of Sacrifice

Wisdom does not reside, nor resides selflessness
in mourning a mulberry’s demise or its bare arms.
For the sacrifice of more than countless,
always more, never less,
yields but a piece of futile silk,
a piece, not even a yarn.

The Art of Living

As every drop upon a burdened leaf,
sojourns a moment, a moment brief,
why cans’t let not we burdens too
fall few where they once meant to.
This life is burdensome as it is,
lead not by self it far from bliss.
Please let all burdens fall my heart,
feigning joy perhaps is true art.

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