A wish.

Oldie but goldie, Poetry, Politics

I wish for my self alone

Because I am alone,

A small fragment of my kind

Which isn’t my kind

According to them

Because I dream of dreaming

Dreams of a tomorrow

Without battling hounds of war

That my kind inflicts upon

Itself with an excuse so obtuse

That a five year old can know

It as a lie

So black and cruel.



History, Oldie but goldie, Poetry, Politics, War

Into the fray they march,

Onto the icy fields

To make war for their Creator,

And the might He wields.


A Mountain Rose, they fight for,

A Mountain Rose, their life,

Against a perfidious foe and cold

To reclaim their fief.


Miles to defend, miles to roam

To bear the burden of Death.

Entrenched on the slopes of icy extinction,

Chill pervades each breath.


Yet, Will vanquishes adversity,

And hope springs anew,

When fervour goes beyond verbosity,

Favouring the Brave few.


Into the arms of Fate, they march

With only Allah and perseverance,

Only to destroy a heathen hope

Of obliteration and abject adherence.


Ice pink with what was crimson,

Immolation for a Mountain Rose.

Martyrdom is a Heavenly reason

On the white petals of the Mountain Rose.


The Fallen.

History, Music, Oldie but goldie, Poetry, Politics, War

 Their song became wordless.

The words shall never be sung,

Played to the rhythm of gunfire,

Maybe their tale shall be sung.


Tonight, the stars shine down upon them

As they lie lifeless, bleeding.

Their fervour has fled with their spirits,

Slain by evil and its seeding.


They lived not for the glory,

But their end was plain gory.

They perished with their mothers, wives, sisters,

For a Motherland. ‘Tis the very story.


“Once in a lifetime,

Once in a blue moon,

A chance to break free of the shackles.”

They prayed for it to be soon.


Stars shine down upon them,

As the enemy celebrates.

And desecrating each of the Fallen,

As their laughter reverberates.


“Each a vicious militant!

Each a savage brute!

Each an enemy of the Great Republic!

Each uncouth!”


Each escaping the clutches of the Satanate,

For hope and Freedom.

Where dignity and honour, well-preserved,

Away from this fiefdom.


“They were armed to their teeth!”

Or so the soldiers stated,

But many were feeble, young and old.

Or simply, ill-fated.


Their arms were just prayers,

Their munitions: words of God,

Their aim was just Freedom.

Or whatever was willed by God.


Escape was the only way out for them,

As their days were all slated.

Lurking in the tall pines,

Hidden, Death waited.


Their wish was Freedom,

From subjugation, oppression.

God willed it from all kinds

In His Just, Noble fashion.


The Fallen fell from our sights,

Flew away their martyred sprites.

Freedom comes in Kingdom Come.

The Fallen win in respite.


History, Poetry, Politics, War

We’re desserting on peace

As images are toppings

For our news reports

And turn away from

A civil regard for life.

Men of gods claim divinity,

Blood and soul,

Each feasting on my mind,

Nibbling with silver spoons

And sipping gold chalices,

They say it is for our own good.

Their robes shroud and swallow sanity

And the bearers of Truths

Purvey no justice.

Flip the channel!

Fear is just anchors away.

Noob in front

Of the boob tube,

Whispering under breath:

It’s not me this time!

It’s not me this time!


The revolution will now be televised.

Kaee Chicharr, Poetry, Politics, War

The revolution will now be televised.
Its a ratings game, I tell you.
A huge reality show!
With thousands of idiots drooling over the idiot box!
Your life is a game show.
You’re not a pawn, I tell you.
You’re not a soldier or a revolutionary.
You’re a sock puppet, not even a dummy,
Your dreams and hope and life, all arbitrary
Subject to a paper-pushers whims
Weighted by a few green notes
RO’s and a dream to make a name.
  And you chase the chasing hounds
After a fox that’s to foxy clever
And come home to feed the emptiness
With dreams sold to you not so subtly
And thrust down your throat
And you orgasm as you choke on it.
Yes, your dreams are seeded into your mind
Like the words you scream, chant and dreams you demand
You poor sock puppet, you.
You don’t even have your own voice.
Just a face you think that’s yours
With those beady, glassy, dead eyes
Staring at the bullets you dodged
While sitting aware and distant
Like an armchair activist or
A millionaire socialist.
Always sympathetic, never empathetic.
Ask never for whom they revolt
As long as they revolt like a revolutionary.
For all those like you,
The revolution will now be televised.


Digital Humans.

Poetry, Politics

I’m a paper card

Selling dreams to you

Because I know them

To be untrue for me.

I’m a plastic card

Or bound papers to you

Without which I would not be me.

What am I to you?

What are you to me?

Faces on a piece of paper,

Just a number in your phone memory.

Special moments are locked up

In your pockets, in your cells.

Everything you want to know

A click soon tells.

Sprockets, widgets and applications

Talk about simplification of communication

But, you never really talk to me.

But, you never really smile at me.

Simpler times,simpler things happened,

Now, just talk clogs the lines.

And songs, they just refuse to rhyme.

Maybe I belong in a simpler time.

That you hold in your hand.

History, Kaee Chicharr, Lahore, Oldie but goldie, Poetry, Politics, War

There are more tombstones in the valley,
No thought in your mind,
Just your fear conquering the world,
As your muscles tremble to make the machine scream
That you hold in your hand.

And no birds sing in the morning,
And no crickets sing their haunting songs by night,
And no stars sparkle in the dark sky,
Only the fate of a burning people, once alive,
That you hold in your hand.

No one milling around in the busy bazaars,
No one romancing under the moon,
No one playing the haunting flute by the river,
As all are silenced by the rattling scream of the machine
That you hold in your hand.

The sands below grip your feet,
The rivers try to swallow you,
The wind tries to chase you away,
As it rips your banner of new-found fear from the staff
That you hold in your hand.

There are more tombstones in the valley,
Yet, more deserved none as you won.
Or was it fear that conquered you that won?
As your black boots trample another land into submission,
And then, the accusing silence echoes in your head
That you hold in your hand.

Wrote this when US forces invaded Iraq under the false pretense of liberating people from “the tyranny of Saddam Hussain” and to “bring democracy to the people of Iraq.”