Tears flowed, hands trembled, as I searched in vain ... For the path, the road that would lead me to my gain....
Poems forever
By Emily Dickinson
'Tis so much joy! 'Tis so much joy!
If I should fail, what poverty!
And yet, as poor as I
Have ventured all upon a throw;
Have gained! Yes! Hesitated so
This side the victory!
Life is but life, and death but death!
Bliss is but bliss, and breath but breath!
And if, indeed, I fail,
At least to know the worst is sweet.
Defeat means nothing but defeat,
No drearier can prevail!
And if I gain,—oh, gun at sea,
Oh, bells that in the steeples be,
At first repeat it slow!
For heaven is a different thing
Conjectured, and waked sudden in,
And might o’erwhelm me so!
By Majda Ulfat
I began my journey, travelling far,
Seeking answers to life’s eternal star.
Hundreds of miles, I wandered lost,
pondering destiny, my heart the cost.
Tears flowed, hands trembled, as I searched in vain
For the path, the road that would lead me to my gain.
Weary feet, weakened soul,
I turned to a warrior, mighty and whole.
“Lost,” I confessed, “what shall I do?”
He pointed to the path he once pursued.
“Take this path, run towards your destiny.
That is the way, it always has been.”
Still confused, I sought another guide,
A hermit, wise, with a gentle stride.
“What is destiny?” I asked, seeking truth.
“Stay away from all that shines,” he said.
“Your destiny will find its way to you.
Do not chase the glitter, let it come to you.”
Perplexed, yet determined, I walked on,
under the rain till the sun shone.
Behind the clouds, its radiance gleamed,
every leaf sparkled, birds sang their dream.
I saw the signs, the divine display,
The answer within me, all along the way.
My path, unique, carved by my soul,
No expert or opinion could make me whole.
My destiny, forged by my efforts true,
My determination shining through.
By Abid Agha
My eyes rest on the runway outside,
Watching planes land and rise again-
Silver wings carrying untold stories
Across unseen distances.
Aircraft of varied hues and sizes
Glide with a quiet elegance,
As if they know
The weight they carry within.
Passengers arrive from distant lands,
Some with smiles, some with silence-
The air thick with emotions,
Be it a lingering au revoir
Or a long-awaited embrace.
Announcements break the stillness;
Some rise reluctantly,
Others gather themselves
And join the waiting lines.
The crew walks past - composed, graceful-
As if untouched
By the heaviness of farewells.
I sip my caramel latte slowly,
Letting time stretch a little longer,
Quietly fearing the call for my own departure.
Here,
Passengers are both the artists
And the audience-
A soft ache blooms
As every arrival and departure
Dissolve into memory.
This place-
Suspended, fleeting, alive-
Is called
In transit.
By Maryam Shah
He still makes her share of coffee,
Sets the napkin before her.
Buys her flowers,
Waits for her calls,
Wears the sweater she had knit,
Hugs her tight
Each night.
The moon goes down, the sun shows up.
Her coffee lies there,
Cold, untouched.
Her chair remains empty,
The napkin still folded,
The flowers lie on the table.
Everything - a quiet shore,
Untouched by her tide.
The silence on his phone
Speaks louder than her absence.
His hugs hold no warmth of her touch.
And in that quiet ritual,
Love lingers still, folded into steam,
Waiting for a hand
That will never return.
