The dead

The dead shall speak for the ones alive, 

not knowing the alive are deaf. 

The dead shall scream, 

not knowing the alive are deaf, 

The dead shall whine, 

everyone shall see,

but none shall hear, 

for they are deaf.

pashmeena

Where did you get that pashmeena? 

So many colors, colors one will never find? 

-- I have woven this with threads I found, 

from the river to the sea, 

in a land that was not free. 

The red thread I found, 

stuck in a branch of a tree, 

drenched in blood, 

of my beloved. 

The beige one I found

on the windowsill of a house

with the mother shedding love

and hope from her eyes, 

waiting for the son 

who never left to return  

The pink as you see, 

is the one from the cheeks, 

of the children of my land, 

Smiling and shy they stand. 

The blue as you see 

is what I borrowed from the sky, 

vast and clear and free

Like my land will be ! 

~Shafaq Shahid

Barzakh

I saw roses from a graveyard, 

creeping over the walls, 

words written on every petal, 

as each one of them falls. 

I saw a man standing there, 

collecting petals from the road, 

keeping them in a diary, 

one petal in every fold. 

- Who writes to you from there? 

- Those are letters from Barzakh. 

My son warns me of sins, 

and the betrayal of the world. 

and he tells me how each virtue, 

grows like whorls. 

-Do the petals fall everytime? 

- No. 

 

I find one at fajr, 

it has a smile with salam 

The ones in the day

at the sound of each Azaan

The one at 'isha' is as if at peace

"you did not waste your day"

is what it reads

I ll write to you from my grave too

with flowers pink as blush

I ll write to you from my grave too, 

with the brown ink of mud. 

~Shafaq Shahid 

I am scared, 

of the night, 

when I ll end up, 

with minimum strength

in my bones

to hold 

the tired flesh of mine

Of the night when 

i ll have read every word 

of every book

on every shelf

and I ll have nothing to write. 

I am scared

of the day i run back home. 

~Shafaq

I walked past every lane

I walked with you, 

in same dresses, 

and same veils

with the moon

staring at me. 

She asked me where you were. 

May I tell her that you are

 in the days now, 

with the sun? 

That you don't walk in nights now? 

She keeps asking. 

She misses you. 

~Shafaq

Someone died,

A woman, 

very old, 

very weak, 

emaciated, 

wasted, 

from cheeks to collar bones, 

to across the bosom, 

someone cried by the bedside

someone wept their eyes out

someone choked to the last words they had to say to her

someone screamed a sorry they had to say

someone fainted for she was born to her, 

someone chanted her name, was in love with her. 

All those screams could not be heard, 

I forgot someone died, 

and could only listen to the pain, 

of people left behind, 

I walked out and went to the corridors nearby, 

Red walls, narrow lanes, 

I walked it on and off, 

a 100 times,

trying not to listen to the echoes of people whining

And when all went calm, 

I sat down on the bench, 

held my head, 

and started telling myself, 

I did not hear her crying while she was dying, 

I did not even listen to her cream once, 

I did not see her weep her eyes out. 

Staying there for an hour or so, I thought to myself, 

None of them cried for her, 

they cried for themselves, 

none of them made dua to make it easy for her after death, 

or very few did, 

very few that we did not even hear them. 

And I realised, we do not listen to misery, 

We listen to mulishness disguised as misery, but never the real one. 

We are deaf to reality. 

Everytime. 

~Shafaq Shahid 

Nothing will last

It won't last. 

None of it. 

Believe me when I say it. 

smiles, 

whines, 

every word that rhymes, 

nothing will last. 

wishes, 

dreams, 

love, 

life, 

those midnight cries, 

nothing will last. 

None of it. 

That pit in your stomach, 

something will fill it, 

if not love, 

then a meal. 

Even that pit won't last. 

There is " zawal " to everything. 

every worldly desire, 

need, 

dream, 

hope. 

Things will replace eachother, 

may be a year, 

or a day,

or just the next millisecond. 

Nothing you feel will last, 

not even " not feeling anymore ".

~Shafaq Shahid. 

who also won't last too. 

A coversation in the heaven.

What took you so long? 

-- I was blind to the realisation of truth. My mind was oppressed. I was paralysed to practice the truth.

And your heart? 

-- It always knew the truth, it was between Your fingers.

~Shafaq Shahid.

The last poem

When I burn my poems, 

will you come and pick the ashes, 

and put them in a jar, 

and paint it with my name, 

and stud it with some pebbles, 

and put all your letters, 

and close the lid tight, 

and throw it far, 

into the Dal. 

~Shafaq Shahid.

They never taught us misery.

It was a friday night in february, 

that a flash came from the balcony, 

reflecting on the dark windows, 

of my classroom. 

I starting as I saw someone sitting there,

on the last bench of my dark classroom, 

someone in a white coat at midnight, 

looking at the screen all blank, 

staring at it, 

Her chin resting on her hand, 

her black hair tied in a braid, 

hair talking to the breeze, 

the breeze of midnight. 

Curious to know what she was staring at, 

I tried to call her, 

once, 

twice, 

thrice, 

five times, 

I called her five times, 

As she turned to me, 

and this girl with a beautiful face and a pity smile said:

I am staring at what they never taught us in class. 

I am staring at life. 

Blank life.

I looked at her badge, 

her name was Shafaq. 

The sparrow

I woke up to a frozen window

as my friend knocked at my door

thrice, and then she opened the door to my room

as she saw me staring out of the frozen glass

covering my eyes and opening them

looking at that sparrow on my windowsill. 

Her wings frozen and heavy

with snow on them

Shivering, blood trickled down her wings

and got frozen in no time

as I touched the glass

and did scare her away

to the river nearby

to wash off that blood

but the river was ice cold

A man by the river with bonfire

touched her wing with  burnt twig

better burnt than washed. 

The burning wing fascinated her, 

she jumped into the fire, 

chirping, 

That I have much dirt on me, 

and my heart, 

and my mind, 

and my soul, 

I have to wash it all

So, better burnt than washed away. 

That bird was me, 

I was staring at myself, 

and then I realised---

My friend was yelling at me saying : Get up Shafaq, there is a fire upstairs. 

~Shafaq Shahid. 

Half

You see half a moon, 

from that room, 

by the quietest side of the road, 

where no one ever thought, 

life would be gazing at the skies, 

from the heaviest eyes. 

You see a half written story, 

on those half torn pages. 

An ink pot half empty, 

and a fig half eaten. 

You see half a cup of tea

and a half eaten bread

by the table near the shelf

You close the window half

and the inkpot  falls

and spills the half ink

staining the half of your pashmeena

You sit by the window

and wait for Fajr

and you run to the rug

half shredded but clean

You make half a wish, 

and pray for the rest,

to be written by Him, 

from the best of the fate

You ll get the other half, 

one day. 

And then you sleep, 

for half a day, 

And half a night. 

And pray for the rest. 

You pray everyday. 

~Shafaq Shahid

It was 2 at midnight

I woke up

for the cold of that january night

and to the candle melting

by the windowsill

and the book I was reading

with some pages folded. 

I went out to pick up the book

and put it in the shelf

Reluctant to walk

I somehow reached the shelf

when I kept the book

besides the glass

half empty

half filled

filled of water

and a rose in it

the pink rose 

I started to walk to my bed

when the wind pushed the door open

and a blow of wind, so cold

gave me goosebumps

from head to toe

I grabbed my mother's knitted shawl

and tied my hair into a bun

and went out to the little room

with a wall full of open windows

each window beating against another

scaring me with the noise

I caught hold of one 

and went to close it

when I saw a girl in the lawn

of my house 

her hair set free 

in the wind

She was holding two papers

dipped in wine 

they had turned pink

I could not read them

but I saw a crease

as if they were folded

When I  looked at her again

she smiled and screamed

waving those two pages

'The answer lies here'

tears trickling down her face

she screamed

My hair opened up 

and started to cover my eyes

I could see her one moment

the hair flew all over my face

and the next moment

she was walking away

not looking back

I screamed to her

to scream to me 

the answer she read

She did ot look back

I put my hair behind my ear

and ran towards my shelf

my shawl fell off me

and flew out of the window

but I did not look back to it

I reached the shelf and found 

those two pages I folded

in all water

from the glass half filled

It erased everything written

unlike the wine

the rose was torn

into pieces

I picked up a petal

and the pages

took them near the melting candle 

trying to dry them up

and read something of everything she said

I couldn't. 

I stayed up as much as I could

I fell asleep crying 

and I woke up

the next morning

I woke up to a grey sky

no winds

petals crushed

paper torn

I went out to the room of windows

saw my shawl

in the lawn

covered in dirt

with something kept besides it. 

It was a glass of wine

half filled

~Shafaq Shahid

I ll pray

If ever you walk past the lane, 

my window opens to, 

have a look up, 

when the speakers of the Masaajid

call out the Azaan, 

have a look to the window glass,

it will reflect me,

 in a satin veil, 

sitting in the way of 

the radiant light 

coming across the hall, 

I ll be asking for peace, 

for both, 

only peace, 

a hundred times. 

Nothing more, 

 nothing less. 

I promise nothing else. 

So walking past the lane, 

look up, 

then look down, 

walk away, 

and say 

Amen. 

~Shafaq Shahid

Pashmeena

When my Pashmeena got stuck in the broken net of the window of my Grandmother's house, I pulled whole of the long thread, for the rag cannot be knitted back clean. 

Pashmeena should not have scars.Pink rose in color, that Pashmeena was my grandmother's. She wore it to her daughter's wedding in december. December was snow all over the pavement of her house, with wazwan in the backyard. Her pink pashmeena stood against the fire cooking those delicacies.....

~Shafaq Shahid.

December

On a december night 

under those street lights

 where the white snow turns warm 

we ll dry my veil on the roadside 

and we ll sit there quite 

with the stars up high

 while they read the book 

I wrote every night 

One page at a time 

half a tear at a time 

I ll meet you there. 

~Shafaq Shahid

The fig and the fawn

Barefoot on the snow, 

as I walk a mile and a half

 and look around and stop, 

 I see a pavement by the shop, 

 where I sit and stay for long, 

I look up and sing a song, 

 I cry loud and see a fawn,

 from the world of dreams and death,

 "You are the prettiest I met."

He said and ate a fig, 

and gave me half of it,  

and took me in the cart, 

 to the land of figs and stars, 

 you could eat and look above,

 to the shooting stars and know, 

that you will wake up when you want,

 from the sleep of hope but ,

Can't. You can't sleep for long. 

For you can't hope for long, 

for you only hope for Him, 

to see you in the dream, 

 and lend you dreams of hope, 

and not break it when you grow, 

 Not break it when you grow. 

 I sit barefoot on the snow 

~Shafaq Shahid