Silence is not intensive
It is a coping mechanism
For the experience,
Good or bad.

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I want to romanticise the revolution
as they wail near the borders

I want to write romantic songs
As they cry the hearts out

I want to paint the picture of mansion
As they turn to the ashes

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Should I still be writing romance?
Or should I raise a voice?

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The playing of rabab_
Like the tides
They silence them
And write poems.

The night owl
Hooting and_
A new born wailing
Among the dead flowers.

Can we smile again?
Can we live again?

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اس کے لیے میری محبت غیر منقسم ہے۔
وہ ایک شخص، جو مجھے جانتا تک نہیں!

میں نے اپنے دل کو سمجھا دیا ہے۔
وہ کسی اور کا: ہائے!! اور مجھے اس سے کوئی اعتراض تک نہیں!

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Everything is falling
It's hard to carry
The burden- of a dead soul
In the empty yard of dungeons

-

I seek refuge in error
as fear may be my terror

For those with knives
know how to take lives

In between the e-mail and spams
We love to shelve letters and telegrams

That's the world, a wanton
an anatomy of skelton

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Sure, you might be thinking
Why was I not able to express
Clearly_
Why was I silent
When the name of my land
Was mentioned_
Maybe, in my town
People were used to
The sound of Silence.

-

III


The satisfied smiles
_the wounded warriors
They call it mishap
We call it murder

-

II

Dream of the deadly disease
- heartache,
tormented sound of sorrow
Insights the anguish

-

I


Mourning and melody meet
In the far flung forest
And burn the fireflies
_dream

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