The Pakistani Spectator

As I wonder into creation of an old magic
Of my bindings in this world and to another
The white-haired often speaks of her years
Of her dreams, and of her existence
Of what I mean to her, and of perfection

Wrote many, in their lifetimes, of a relation
As words not enough, as feelings more inherent
Hidden and beautiful, in its veil
As she once existed in Gorky’s words
And in Shahab’s volume and prose
As in poems of Aadil, the gifted heavens

Of all those moments,
And of all those sacrifices
White haired and her routines,
Of creation and protection, of knowing
The language of purity and wisdom
Only an ingredient, I in her volumes
But enough, to bring me closer to peace

My hands were once tiny,
Floated with her in heavens
My soul was once incomplete
As she filled me with light and peace
With her strength and with her love
As I tumbled from one place to another
In early years of my existence

An old station near the old daffodils
The old rivers of silence and green
Where she once walked with me
Inside in her womb, in her existence
The old remembrance enough to last
The journey through eternity,
The only possession, the only metaphor
My immortal friend, my immortal mother!