Poem

Who Am I
Who am I?
What am I?
An abandoned shell,
On the sandy beach unwatched,unnoticed,
Floating in receding tide,
With shattered images in broken waters.
A blooming Rose,
Wasting its fragrance in a desert.
A pawn in the game of chess.
Or a puppet on the string,
Guided by circumstances, ferocious, atrocious.
A jinx,
To every body who nears me.
The lonely moon,
Hanging in the vast blue skies,
Crucified for the sins uncommitted.
A child,
Exposed to toys a million,
Allowed to none.
A detached leaf, aimless,directionless,
Wandering with every change in the wind.
Or perhaps none of all these.
A “Thing” different altogether.
I am what I am not,
Why I am not what I am,
Is a big mystery ,
Not known to me.
(Riaz Kamboh)

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Last Glimpse

Who Am I
Who am I?
What am I?
An abandoned shell,
On the sandy beach unwatched,unnoticed,
Floating in receding tide,
With shattered images in broken waters.
A blooming Rose,
Wasting its fragrance in a desert.
A pawn in the game of chess.
Or a puppet on the string,
Guided by circumstances, ferocious, atrocious.
A jinx,
To every body who nears me.
The lonely moon,
Hanging in the vast blue skies,
Crucified for the sins uncommitted.
A child,
Exposed to toys a million,
Allowed to none.
A detached leaf, aimless,directionless,
Wandering with every change in the wind.
Or perhaps none of all these.
A “Thing” different altogether.
I am what I am not,
Why I am not what I am,
Is a big mystery ,
Not known to me.
(Riaz Kamboh)

Pity The Nation

“Pity The Nation” by Khalil Gibran
Seems Khalil Gibran said all this about Pakistan.

Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion.
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave,
eats a bread it does not harvest,
and drinks a wine that flows not from its own wine-press.
Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero,
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful.
Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream,
yet submits in its awakening.
Pity the nation that raises not its voice
save when it walks in a funeral,
boasts not except among its ruins,
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid
between the sword and the block.
Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox,
whose philosopher is a juggler,
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking.
Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting,
and farewells him with hooting,
only to welcome another with trumpeting again.
Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years
and whose strong men are yet in the cradle.
Pity the nation divided into into fragments,
each fragment deeming itself a nation

Autumn

In Autumn
by Winifred C. Marshall

They’re coming down in showers,
The leaves all gold and red;
They’re covering the little flowers,
And tucking them in bed
They’ve spread a fairy carpet
All up and down the street;
And when we skip along to school,
they rustle ‘neath our feet

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Tide In Human Life

“There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat;
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.”

― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

PARTING

PARTING
Parting sun dips down,
Scented air of the befalling night,
Betrays a host of flowers
Mingled up in its making
To intoxicate thy parting moments,
Birds seem to be singing parting songs,
I wish I could stop the fleeting moments,
I wish I could get back the time
We spent together,
Which still reverberates in my memory.
Chilly moonbeams illuminate the road,
Yet I behold nothing save,
The flash-back of gone by days,
That we lost in the fog of yesteryears.
We part now as old-timers have to part someday,
Enduring the pangs of good- byes,
Yet consoling eachother,
With smiling face but tearing eyes.
This is perhaps the Moving Finger,
That writ it this way on the wind.
Be quick, dear me,
Lest evasive looks of me,
Catch the parting steps of thee,
And awake my silent scourge,
Unto a bewailing dirge,
To rattle me inside out,
Go ahead,O! Love of me,
And fret not in retrospect,
As old ties loom around a Magical world,
Where one if looks back,
Is petrified into a Statue.
(Riaz Kamboh)I