The Last Ride

There she goes my little girl,

Just this morning I watched her twirl.

She was wearing a new frock so pink,

With my hand, her hand was linked.

We reached the ride which goes round and round,

She jumped and danced to the sound.

Once she was on it, her eyes shone bright,

It was a truly heartwarming sight.

The ride began and I watched her go,

The ride turned a corner and lo!

There was a bang and nothing remained,

The ground with blood was stained.

I am looking for my little girl,

In the morning, who I watched twirl.

Wearing a frock so pink,

Where is she; I fear to think.

 

At least 65 people have been killed while over 300 injured as a result of a deadly explosion that took place in Gulshan Iqbal Park, Lahore. Most of the victims were women and children. (27 March 2016)

 

 

The Safoora Goth Incident.

The gunshots echo and I wake up screaming,

I guess I really must have been dreaming.

I think and rethink how I could change,

Take my son out of their range.

I dab at my eyes and wonder how,

I would move on with life now.

My pretty daughter with hands painted red,

Lies in her final bed.

Here is my brother in a deep sleep,

And his innocence he shall keep,

I watch him sleep and remember the times,

We were together, partners in crime.

And one last time her mother leaves,

And she; one last tear heaves,

Remembering the argument she had that morn,

About the dress she should have worn.

For the last time, his father he sees,

Stands up; and his mind he frees.

No more tears; he must be strong,

The family must not feel something is wrong.

Ask

Ask that bloodied shoe in the corner,

What it’s owner’s mistake was…

That little girl with the pretty smile,

Find out what she dreamt.

Ask the hallways of the school,

What teachings did it ensure…

That little boy who learned Salam,

What misstep did he make.

Ask the swings which stand so quiet,

What happiness did it spread…

How many children took turns,

To enjoy the pleasant wind.

Ask the windows of the days,

When children would wait for games…

Or look out and smile,

Waiting for the school bell to ring.

Ask the ties;  they stuffed in their mouths,

To prevent themselves from screaming…

Ask the walls which could only watch,

The blood spill of the innocent.

Ask the winds which screamed and howled,

As the children fell to the ground.

Ask the desks which in the end,

Were the only refuge for them…

Ask…

Just ask.

A poem about the Peshawar School Massacre by the Taliban. (16 December 2014)

http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-30491435

The Courageous one

      A Tribute To Acid Victims All Over The World

The pretty face was scarred that day,

All her life began to fray.

The acid burnt through her skin,

Causing pain to kith and kin.

All who saw her, cried out in shock,

Some of them even tried to mock.

It was all her fault, people said,

Standing by her hospital bed.

She heard every word, every sigh,

ALways wondered, Why oh why?

She blamed herself after that,

Whenever crying, down she sat.

Life itself didn’t matter,

It could only fail and tatter.

She tried to imagine a life where,

Things had happened different from here.

No future, no present, no past,

Someone, somewhere a curse had cast.

Life’s failinbng had called to her,

Grief and sadness permanent were.

Now she stands ever tall,

Learnt to walk after her fall.

When she finally got overthe shock,

Came out of the room with the lock.

She still hid her face,

Carried herself with such grace.

She studied hard, She studied more,

Tried to succeed from the core.

She helps those today,

Whose lives have begun to fray.

Acid victims admire her now,

Always, always wondering how.

They want to survive and live again,

Bear it all; even the pain.

So she was a victim who turned it around,

Peace of mind she had found.

Her life is ruined, they had said,

Standing by her hospital bed

.