The Pakistani Spectator

No warmth in my tiny hands,
As I searched her face and pulse
Lies there this beautiful face,
In silence her mouth, words gone
Of her old stories and existence
In cold winters and beautiful springs
Of her struggles and her youth

Remember you will, as you see others
Feel you will my face and my remains
In circles as this rain poured,
From blackened eyes and torn souls
I will never die, as I stood there
I will never die and my tiny hands

Watching this procession,
By those pillars of restraint
Dream you will of me
Years later, she returns, to feel
My forehead and its warmth
Still enough in there, in her face
To remind me of my encounters
No warmth in my tiny hands
As I searched her face and pulse!