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.