They brushed the pebbles with their cold embrace ... Until the ink began to erase...
Poems forever
By William Henry Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
By Abid Agha
I gathered river pebbles within my hand,
Of varied shapes across the sand.
With vibrant colours,
bright and bold,
I wrote your name for the world to hold.
I laid them out with tender care,
A quiet hope, a silent prayer.
Beside the water’s edge they lay,
In a tranquil place where shadows play.
The river’s tides began to rise
Beneath the darkening evening skies.
They brushed the pebbles with their cold embrace
Until the ink began to erase.
As memories became a fading line,
Where sweet and bitter thoughts entwine.
When the grey of twilight closed around,
No trace of colour could be found.
The harsh, dark waves had swept the shore
And left them nameless as before.
I watched the pebbles, now bare and cold,
With all the stories left untold.
I turned away from the water’s edge
With only footprints as my pledge.
By Amna Ameer
Do you know what my problem is?
That I am a coward.
I talk about death
as my saviour,
but I am afraid.
I can’t take the plunge.
I am so used to normalcy
that I cannot jeopardise it.
I think that I can escape it,
but I can’t.
I know a life sentence
must be fulfilled
till the last breath.
So maybe they are right.
They are right to say
I am ignorant,
ungrateful,
an attention seeker.
They say I am a pathological liar
because what they say is the truth.
They don’t see the tears
because I’ve always known
how to cry in silence.
The funerals in my head
were never a metaphor.
Even I don’t know why I keep coming back.
Why do I think there is redemption?
Why do I wait for someone to pick me back up?
I am a living corpse,
a soulless being,
a hurt that doesn’t end,
and a memory so obscene.
I know people who can’t forget,
and therefore they must suffer.
And it is their own loyal suffering
that compromises their senses
in the end, indeed.
For when I forget their onslaught,
I will forget my name too,
how I used to dress,
or if I had a life outside,
or if my bruises finally turned blue.
The mauve hues of pain,
still tender when I touch the creases.
Who knows what was kept inside
when it’s been empty
and no longer belongs to me and you?
I surrender.
I give up
fighting for something
that will never come true.
Maybe happiness
was never meant for me.
I was only designed
to adjust to the idea
of almost getting through.
