poetry

for every winter that passes a cloud dies;a flower withers in the deep forest across  the lake –a dream dies […]

you placed your hand where she struggled the most brutal lashings‘this is what i come for’ you didn’t see her

opening your pores.pain pieces together.your intent. your liminality. succumb to it. no exits have no doors. only walls. 2018, may

the years are not counted. only endured.~pain 2018

وقت ہاتھوں سے پھسل کر گھڑی میں اٹک گیا آج دسمبر 2020 I felt or often feel the day is

the skin ripplesbiting into acheslong forgotten

night salvage usorspit us out 2018

“I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act.We

to find language where once none was neededfilling a void which was homeembracing oneself in the dark pit of the

اس  طرح  اپنی  خامشی  گونجیگویا  ہر  سمت  سے  جواب  آئے فیض  تھی  راہ  سر  بسر  منزلہم  جہاں  پہنچے،  کامیاب  آئے