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Wednesday, 30 July 2014

A Deviant Protest

Our sources report
In the middle of the protest
Against government security forces
The angry protestors
Looked all up
Started pelting stones
Towards the grand sky.

The protest
It is reported
Violently took a spiritual turn
With most of them dying on spot.

The local residents
However claim
That later
Was heavily fired upon
And dispersed 
By using some expired tear gas shells.

Confession of a Wealthy Mind

Had it been nothing
But a curable disease
I would've embraced both gladly:
Love and its all pharmaceutical expenses.

Wednesday, 23 July 2014

Love is a Genre

You loved me
Understood me completely
And I wrote literary
Love poems for You.

Our own 
Little innocent
Genre specific Love.

You say
You don't 
Love me anymore
And feel sorry for me
Even guilty.

It's alright
I understand completely.

Your own 
Little creative
Genre transgressing Love. 

Domestic Violence

Usually late
He comes to his house

Watches News 
In more than six languages
And reads newspapers
Old or new
With unusual curiosity.

I wait for him
Look at him
Stare him
In more than six expressions
Without him uttering a single word back.

Will my death,
Or those who die continuously,
be mourned in your Media?

No my life partner.

Don't be too optimistic.

Thursday, 17 July 2014

Verbal Abyss

I ask
“Our Love, it seems, is falling apart”

After a moment’s wait
Deep somewhere in her thoughts
In a gloomy voice
She replies
“Sorry, what were you saying?”

I smile
So does She.

PS: Love is no question answer session.

Sunday, 13 July 2014


He too
With all his spiritual trousseau
Left Gaza in a hurry.

After all is an atheist.

Monday, 7 July 2014


It may 
Or may not be true
I wreckingly believe
Love is a suicide bomber
Working anonymously for you.

Wednesday, 2 July 2014

I’m Not Interested in Crossing the Boundaries

An English translation of Muzaffar Karim's urdu poem Mujhe Sarhadein Paar Karne Ka Shouq Nahi 

I’m not interested in crossing the boundaries
But still
At times
I wish
Us to be birds

Crossing a handful of sky
Feather by feather

We’d come to our tree-house.

And in autumn
If reminded of our remembrances
Would go 

House-in that lamppost of the university
Under which, somebody, still today
With some books

Is waiting for someone.