Death dictates

It blows its frosty breath
and holds its silver sceptre
the knob glows with its latest kill.

(Soft departure is only soft to the onlookers.)

Death dictates
its purple toes twitch
in line with frozen blood.

(Cold storage is cold to everyone.)

It uses full stops as its only punctuation
and knows no hyphens
definitely no semi-colons.

(It’s probably selfish of me to cry when she’s out of pain at least.)

The black guest was treated
with pained sighs and resigned murmurs
which no-one should write about.

(For we don’t know how to feel; grateful for her release from pain, or plain morose at losing a beloved.)

Is it selfish, tell me death,
to grieve a loss significant
or should we celebrate?

(I wonder if death knows bereavement.)

The angel of death was sad about his duties
and God told him He would create excuses
for people to blame, instead of the angel.

(I am not blaming either the angel or the excuse. I am merely mourning.)

Pray for my nano, everyone.

Void: filled with emptiness

If you feel a void inside you, He can fill it. And only He can fill it. Some of us go through our entire lives trying to fill that void. The world tried to replace God with nationalism back in the 17th century. It has been a void in itself since. 

The dictionary defines a void in several ways. The most fitting being “a completely empty space”. How does a void feel? It feels like a million holes drilled into your being, your soul and heart and mind and organs (and for me, especially my eyes and feet). It feels like this filling heaviness which makes you drowsy and keeps jolting you awake too. It feels like those holes are overflowing with black substance ( I feel we’re unfair to poor black, it never did any harm but always has negative connotations). It feels like… depression, perhaps? But not the clinical depression. And it always leaves you wanting more of everything. Perhaps not in a materialistic way ( personally, I always want more food, more stationary, more time, more contact, more words, more books, more leaves and more stones).

This void… How is it so completely empty and full a the same time? It’s full of emptiness. But the moment you prostrate, the moment your forehead touches the ground, the moment your soul turns back, trust me, you’ll find the void gratified. For that moment, it ceases to exist. It’s like Mrs. Ramsay’s moment of clarity and certainty. But better. And it doesn’t have to be fleeting.

If you feel a void inside you, touch your forehead to the ground and talk to Him. He’ll respond no matter how long it’s been.


Introducing, awesomesauce Maria Imran. And her amazing photography along with an equally amazing piece of poetry! I could almost breathe in Nathiagali.

Randomly Abstract


Amidst sky hues,
Setting suns, misty blues,
Silences lapsing into eternities, infinities;
Our poetry calls us to listen.

Took this on my return route from Nathiagali, Pakistan. Got inspired by the daily post’s challenge to share it because this trip meant all sorts of magic to me.

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Mamlaat (ramblings of insanity)

Wo dhun pata nahi kb milegi. Wo jurm pata nahi kb maaf hoga. Wo jurm jiski maafi na maangi jaaye kabhi maaf hoga bhi k nahi hoga? Maafi bhi kia cheez hae. Maangny waaly ka dil halka krdeti hae. Baaqi maannay waaly ko agar maanna hota hae wo wese bhi maan he jaata hae. Haan agar anaa ka masla ho tou nahi maanta. Lekin dil k maamlat mein anaa ka kia dakhal. Wo dhun najaanay kab milegi. Wo jurm najaany maaf hoga k nahi.
Mere zehn mein uska ehsaas esa hae jese ye baahar ki aawazein. Raat k 2 bj rahy hon ya dupehr k. Ehsaas nahi jaata. Najaany achha hae k bura. Najaany jurm maaf hoga k nahi. Qaidi dekhay haen na? Wo jo haathon mein hathkarriyan nahi pehntay balkay apni zaat pe taalay rakhtay haen. Wo hotay haen darasal qaidi. Apni zaat k qaidi. Insaan ko qaid he hona hae tou apni zat mei kyun ho bhala. Kisi aur zaat mein hojaaye. Najaany jurm maaf hoga k nahi. Najaany maafi maangy bagher kabhi milti hae k nahi.

Picture on the mantel


There’s a picture on the mantel
A picture that I love
Of you and me together
Twenty years afore.

It was taken in our hometown
Afront that crazy, little barn
The one we painted red
To make our world glow warm.

It reminds me now of moments
The ones that we have lived
It compels me to compare them
With those that we are living

The world that we knew then
The people that we met
The things that made us crazy
And youth’s alacrity

We sat before the barn
The red making us blush
Surrounded by bliss
And no reason to rush

I saw that picture today
The story ran in my head
Of the time it was taken
And of the barn painted red

The barn is no more, the red is gone
The world is cold, and we are old
But the picture on the mantel
Is a worthy story told.

~Moniba Mehboob

dark period within evolution

Everything evolves, sometimes into nothingness, and sometimes into expansive energy which holds power to bring a million dreams to life. Within that process of evolution is a dark period: one in which little light enters, always to be consumed by the darkness. But if we can hold on to that little bit of light, cling to it and climb it like a rope till we can get hold of all that light, well then that energy tantamount a golden wand of granting wishes is ours to claim.

We’re in that dark period. Perhaps all humans are at this age, but WE are in this dark period. Frustrations, greyness, exhaustion, despair, hopelessness, unsettling uncertainty which looms over every single thing; it makes us doubt our very being. We’re alive, we’re not very conscious. We’re awake, we’re not really conscious. We’re breathing, we’re just not really conscious. You without me, me without you, you uncertain of me and me of you, or not of each other but of fate. And of course, fate is something to be uncertain of. It’s that fireball which could either set you on fire and burn you to ashes or set you on fire and light you up into a likeness of a celestial being.

Such a pity, this dark period. Such a pity. You and me, we try to turn it into words; dark words, curling in on themselves, hiding a depth of meanings, curling, curling, curling, like that snake which suffocates. And within those words we lose parts of ourselves and we don’t realize it. Years later, we’ll look at these, gather those scattered parts and hold them close to our hearts. Years later, when hopefully we will have reached that light. Years later when hopefully we will have grabbed hold of that expansive energy and turned it into…. I don’t know what. You tell me.


Why do you shout so? You do know it’s all in vain. When the veins begin to pop in your head and your blood begins to curdle and you take the first of your last breaths, is that when you’ll learn? They won’t listen, you know. No one ever wants to listen. You don’t either. Everyone wants to be left alone, but no one wants to be lonely. How ironic people are. Shouting won’t make a difference. You shout, the noise only resonates inside you, echoing off the hollow pipes and vessels, producing a resounding fire inside you, making you irritable bordering insanity. Why do you shout? It is not all that you can do. Why do you shout? It will not reach their ears. Why do you shout? It will not get anything done. Why do you shout? Are you letting out your own chaos in those shouts? You do know it only increases tenfold. Why do you shout?

A Rainbow Awaits

Naive little water drops never knew
What they were, what they could do
Upon their downfall they saw the sun
The sun shone bright and magic spun
A band of colours poured from the drops
Exquisite scenery high above the crops
Bright old sun had till then just burned
It saw then the rainbow the drops had churned
It saw its own reflection in the colours that appeared
It saw itself caring when it had never cared
It made the water shine when it fell from its height
It showed the drops too their very own might
Dear old sun makes rainbows everyday
It still burns and still makes the drops gay
The water never fears and takes on the fates
As long as the sun shines, a rainbow awaits.

Applauding Neruda for expressing me(and everyone) so aptly

We Are Many

Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.

When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.

On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.

When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?

All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.

But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.

While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.

By Pablo Neruda


You told me you felt lost.

What I should’ve said is, come to me, rest your head upon my shoulder, let me be lost with you, let us find our way together….

What I said was, where are you lost from?

I knew where. I knew you felt flustered with the feelings swirling so fast inside you that you didn’t know what to do of them, that you felt numb by the pace and volume of those feelings. I knew that the spinning made you feel lost.

And I also knew that you weren’t lost.

I should’ve told you. You live in my heart. How could you ever be lost until I decide not to love you? And how could I ever decide that, when the decision never even rested with me? And even if it did, why would I ever decide that?

You are not lost.