POEM 305
OWN SETTLEMENT
I like
the bird
made tired
my wings from flying.
With the season's change
Like the white crane
returning
after wintering
far from home
Wish to return...
But to what homeland ...?
Lost are the ways
known to me...
and returning ...
could lead hell.
_____
POEM 306
HER CRITERIA
My hand with love
I have offered
will she give me hers?
At my pockets
She looks ...
She weighs herself
in money
not my love for her.
_____
POEM 307
FORGETTING SOMEONE
Easy
the expression of hate ..
But removing someone
from the heart and mind ...
Requires a great deal of time
and is extremely difficult to do.
_____
POEM 306
HOME
It is possible
You may go away ...
We may never meet again.
But oh my beloved..!
Remember ...
I will be living
in your heart
like you have
lived in mine.
Each heart a home
where long we've lived.
And that home ...
can never be forgotten.
_____
POEM 309
COW BARN
Man's stubborn nature
so like the bull.
Causing trouble ...
Soon finds a rope
about his neck.
Now he is led off
to his confinement
in a place not unlike
a cow barn.
_____
POEM 310
THE POWER OF GOD
It is my belief
No person
has real power.
For people of God ...
Strong in their faith
Would never
bow before anyone
but God.
_____
POEM 311
THE TIME OF BONDING
There was a time
I escaped from girls.
Now the beautiful girls
Don’t look at me.
They consider me
a man of maturity.
So smiles for love
and hearts bonding
seems an impossible task.
_____
POEM 312
COMPLETION
I awoke
Sound the sleep ...
The whole world
was paired off.
Every where couples...
But I was one ...
I stood alone
only my shadow
beside me....
Yet the shadow
gave me hope ...
I am in good company.
_____
POEM 313
LOVE OF PASHTOON GIRLS
She looks at me...
her face
changed suddenly
As if I
had set fire
to her heart...
But she remained silent
as if mute.
She is the true Pashtoon girl
whose culture forbids
Her to express love
not even in a few words.
_____
POEM 314
ARMS DEALERS
From the sword of Papa Khushal...
some made the weapons ...
the arrows
knives
bullets
and rockets ....
How do we blame
illiterate Pashtoons,
lives made hard by
mountains and rough valleys.
While we, the poets see
the dealing in arms
and write nothing..
except
the audacity of deceptive words.
