Evenings are throttled down by the bar of a curfew:
Bloody curfews ’re in vogue – since spans, dates, years,
Here, on t’is fragmented-paradise,
Even before the seeds of my conception
Were in a tight-fist of my farmer-parents.

The rhapsody of crawling species – warbling out
Elegiac metres or, perhaps lamenting
Over the loss of an ancient tranquility.

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Fire is burning on the banks of Jhelum,
I have seen the ghastly paradigm, across the ire of fire:
The naked dance of a strange Jezebel.

O’ Gosh! I’m perplexed, what is this? Perhaps I have
Stepped into the era of Eliot’s “THE WASTE LAND”.
I have been told by someone, about the fire’s burning,
Why didn’t I reply? It’s the carcass of beauty that stinks.
Careless, I left to my mama’s home; I decide to left early,
Lest the daddy would come to fetch me by the cudgel.


Listen! these are curfew’d evenings,
The highways to heaven are being asphalted now
By the leather of God’s children.
Rizwan has left us decades ago, left us the keys of the
“Gates of Paradise”.

The custodians of foul paradise, they didn’t spare even
“The Guardian of the Gates of Paradise”.
I return back, striding on a road, in a pindrop silence,
Munching the almond kernels from my Dear Sister.
The only metaphor vibrant on the highway,
Is the crunching of silence and the munching of my heart.


An alienation in the sense of a phenomenon, I found on the
Faces of curfew’d evenings.
Few days have left for the carnival of Eid to come, the skeletons
Are searching for their dead flesh, to drape their excoriated bodies.

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