by Shahida Latif
Who bears the innocent shining rosy figures,
And works being pressed under the load of life.
He counts days and nights, as a prisoner does,
After being sentenced long tiring punishment,
And waits for the last moment of his engagement.
Who is he who becomes statue like forlorn numbed,
On seeing trickling tears in the eyes of motherhood,
And feeling the gusts of air changing their direction.
Why has he placed the books in the shelves,
Bidding farewell the treasure of knowledge,
Priceless commodity, wisdom and rare insight?
Why have the tides of time forced him to hold,
Heavy hammer, spanners, pincers and pliers,
And now I see him running, moving the wheel?
Why has blackness of the dark night smeared,
His dress, his hands, his feet and rosy cheeks?
Last updated June 24, 2011