The Pakistani Spectator

Bring in my patients,
“I am ready”,
Says the young surgeon
In his scrubs,
Often in pink or green,
Pass me those instruments
Those goiters and forceps
As moments fold,
Into hesitation and valor
As moments fold,
Into years of learning
To extract,
The old fluids
Causes of distraction

Often they come,
The old thoughts
Upon these tables
Of finding a conscience
Dead or alive
To question,
Those old rhymes
Of faith and existence
To question,
The old myths
Of legend and folklore

Many years gone,
The questions remain
In bloom,
In between
Those ages
Now hidden
Only words,
As last resource
Talk to me,
Return and respond
Only there
The silence,
As I die every day
Upon those tables
With these instruments
An overwhelming burden

From a distance arrives
The old conscience,
In whispers
No longer need you
The old instruments
Or painkillers
Or the clothes
Just the conversation

As the lights go off,
The empty table,
Walks away the surgeon
In distance, the old concepts
In distance, the old instruments
Forceps and goiters
The old echo, in question
Wanted, dead or alive
The old questions

Cannot cure you
The whispers inside him
These ailments of conscience
Only the peace,
Only the wisdom
The available ingredients
The search has ended
Echoes gone, as he returns
To wear the old instruments!

Last 5 posts by Asim

• Children of Congo - November 7th, 2008
• The Disease called “Indifference” - November 1st, 2008
• Balochistan (The Earthquake Poem) - October 30th, 2008
• Suicide Note - October 25th, 2008
• Swat - October 12th, 2008