The Golden Mosque of Old Lahore

History, Lahore

The Golden Moque, commonly known as Sunheri Masjid, is located in the centre of Old City of Lahore, Pakistan. It was built in 1753 by Nawab Syed Bhikari Khan son of Raushan-ud-Daula Turrabaz Khan, deputy governor of Lahore during the reign of Muhammad Shah. It is situated in the old Kashmiri Bazaar along the Royal Road leading from Dehli Gate to the Lahore Fort.

The mosque is famous for its three brass domes and is popular with tourists from across the globe.

You can view photos of The Golden Mosque of Lahore here.

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Dusk and Her embrace.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

I saw her standing on a dark corner.
Burning in her I saw a fire.
It was need, not desire,
Because she hadn’t much.
She came to their rescue,
And they came to her rescue.
The needs were very different,
But they needed each other,
To be; to exist independently;
To fulfill themselves and needs.
She needs to eat to live.
They live to consume all they see.
So they meet on a dark corner,
Where few would witness the transaction,
But Dusk and Her embrace.
They be and not be Human.

Inteshar.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

I am in the Dark.
Matter is intangible.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.

Senses are senseless
Not comprehending the comprehensible
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.

To touch someone.
To feel someone, for once.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.

I am in the Void.
My voice echoes back to me.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.

I am in a pit.
Dust poured over me.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.

The Blind Beggar.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry


I’m a blind beggar
Groping my way forward
To something I cannot see,
Only lead by Mirages
& Voices that tempt me
Into having faith in the unseen
Which has never been
Something that I can understand.
Sometimes, they lead me
Into traps & pits,
With sweet, sweet words;
Sometimes, they lift my spirit
To the heavens up above in ecstasy,
With stinging, hurtful prods.
My ignorance is a curse,
For I can follow & but not see
To believe.
My ignorance is my Messiah,
For it frees me from Desire,
Which binds me to my body,
& tears my soul from me.

24/8/MMVI

Something special to someone.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry


Masked, she walks
With a measured gait,
With innocence & virtuosity
Hiding the crime that feeds her.
Stars beg her to walk
Beneath their gaze,
To see the puppet’s frantic dance
In the dark maze.
& the earth trembles in pity
Beneath her dainty steps,
Burdened with a need,
Numbed with a need.
A few calculated words
Change her direction,
Put a spring in her step,
& butterflies in her stomach.
Anticipating a short brutal spell,
Unhurting, ecstatic battering,
Matching ,only, the accelerating rhythm,
Not the will, not the desire.
All to put an ache out of the belly,
& into the heart,
That longs no more for desire,
& aches no more for hope,
& hopes no more for
A simpler time & place,
Where it would all mean
Something special to someone.
Only one a night,
& not a crime to hide from the sun,
& not to walk alone,
As a living wraith of morality,
& hunger, need, desire & trial,
Of men in oblivious sobriety,
& might of men, wealth of men,
& the starvelings on the street.

17/4/MMIV

I think.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

My world is a desert island.
I am its sole inhabitant, I think,
Because no one here
Speaks my tongue!
And I don’t speak theirs
Just to get even with them
For their ignorant neglect.
Thus, I starve me for vengeance.
I smile and I cry.
I think they think I am mad.
They dance and revel and laugh!
I think I think they’re mad.
Nah! I don’t care much for them.
I think the whole lot of them
Is a huge cabbage patch.
Lucky for them, I am not a vegetarian.
Alas, there are more cabbages around
Than those willing to eat them!
And not a soul to speak my tongue!
Hmmmmm! I think I should Nah!
I ought to feed this cabbage patch
To some stripped cows that live in the jungle!
Nah! They are already too few here,
And they’d probably get indigestion.

My tornado is sleeping.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

My tornado is sleeping
Sapped of the energy
That made it spin round
And round and round
In a faithless oblivious abandon
That knew no end
With a ripping, roaring,
Thunderous sound
Which was like a sigh, a cry,
For a soul in dismal distrust
And ecstatic fear
My eyes had found
For a breathless me
As the gods of discord ripped
My feeble mind spinning
Round and round and round.

Pictures and no words.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry


Pictures & no words come to my mind
As I struggle against these bounds
That bind my mind
In unbearable torment
For I can see & not speak
Of the fears that spear
My black heart in a black night
When my breath stains the panes no more.
& as the eastern sky gets lighter
The pictures get brighter
& my mind gets more lost
As the words are no more tossed
Out of my mind & into yours
To free my soul at your expense.

Inteshar.

Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry

I am in the Dark.
Matter is intangible.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.
Senses are senseless.
Not comprehending the Comprehensible.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.
To touch Someone.
To feel Someone, for once.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.
I am in the Void.
My voice echoes back to me.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.
I am in a pit.
Dust poured over me.
My voice is unheard,
And, so, it shall be.