I stroll about the terrace;
And sounds of my land immerse into my existence:
The soft drip of the lonesome trickle of dew,
As it embraces the thirsty earth;
The soulful chirrup of the swallow,
As it meditates on the benevolent neem;
The cadenced buzz of the honey bee,
As it prowls about for the nectar;
The gurgled hoot of the sleepy owl,
As it finally slips into slumber;
The whooshing flow of the morning breeze,
As it invigorates the mortals far and wide:
But then ruthlessly, in a flurry of time
The bliss of spring is cut off,
And … autumn on its throne of gold and red,
Arrives to proclaim its crown: the land that had bloomed
With the scintilla of flora and the jade of prairie,
Now lays barren of its vibrancy,
And squandered of its colors … and so it happens, that
Blood tinkles down the leaves galore;
The shades of neem no more benign, snigger in deceit;
The bee drones as it strikes to raze the mountain-homes;
The owl cowers in fear, alert and tense;
The wind lashes in fury, blood and flesh its feed:

Helpless and vulnerable, unable to do anything,
I still stroll about the terrace, contemplating
Does my land have a future?



  1. Hira says:

    very deep and true.
    the last part esp touched the feeling of helplessness but hopefully all will be well. (Inshallah)

  2. Anas Shafqat says:

    Thanks :]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: