My poetry is a little part of me. It sneaks up on me as when I least expect it and hides away when I try to recall it. Unlike the style of writing, poetry doesn’t listen to the command of a whistle. I cannot summon inspiration at the start of a finish line or at the beginning of a snowfall. I can only wait for it to strike and settle down before it can be disturbed again and hope that in the moment when it does settle down, I can grasp it quickly enough so as to not lose it again.
Here are two pieces, both of which simmer uncomfortably at the brink of change, because who knows when and how these thoughts may emerge in the future.
Rooh – (loosely translated from Urdu) soul
If they resonate with you, let me know.