And once in a jungle
She wrote a para of heart
Cuddled the joy of love
Flew the dove of peace
Splashed the water of purity
Felt the breeze of oneself

And then one day came a beast
From the land of unknown
Of rules and customs curious to her
He had those blue eyes
Reflecting to her
The her

She now finds herself
Forced into cage of fears
The wings once fluttering
Now flatter the her
To the deep down dark
Woven by a decent gown

And once again in a jungle
She wrote a para of heart
Mourned the joy of love
Fell to catch the dove of peace
Gathered the water of purity
Stone-hearted the breeze of herself

Looking at the moon,
spreading its appeasing light;
surroundings turning opalescent, 
chilling weather freezing the heart;
waves dancing to the sight of love,
sand absorbing the blemished steps;
darkness perching in the soulless eyes__
I counted the stars of diminished self,
gathered the sparkles of a deadly crimson.
The giggling of small ones,
dominated the deadness of the ambience.
Rushing towards them, I screamed,
'I've come back. Take me with you'.
Not a single stir. 
Silence.
Shattered, I rested on the old mast;
the only witness of untold stories.
Sighed and broken__
'Bring your football', I turned around,
a little one passed through me.
Numbed.
Once again I had forgotten,
it was 14th of moon.
 

Cluttered in the aura of amity
Hovered around like a fluttering soul
Aroused by the colour of wings
Orchestra of the rhyming love
Shattered into pieces long ago

Truth reveals itself somehow,
for the fears will tear,
into pieces fallen apart.
And life will no longer be
as was bestowed then.
For the sooth of serenity,
and the sparkle of fire,
the redness of your attire,
the gaze of your eyes,
the charm of your flare,
the mighty sound of roar;
but still a heart full of light,
a head free of desires,
a soul dominating lust,
a lie smashed long before___
the terror might not be new,
yet not be welcomed.
For the right doesn't bow,
and never did. 

Don't know,
where the words come from...
How they tell stories,
of known to unknown...
How the aching soul,
pours out of bloody ink...
From whom they derive,
the essence of life...
And the why the paper;
feels the scratches of,
love and hate...
Yet it is thirsty of showers;
of touch of writing hand;
of rolls of pen.
An uncanny hunger!

I swung into you hands,
like a merry go round.
And you pushed me away,
like a shooting star.
And lo I landed,
into the lap of galaxy,
with warmth of serenity;
of glitters twinkling,
a sweet cuddle.
And below you standing,
gaze into the sky;
ear all towards it__
shooting for a star;
yet a billions,
pieces you apart.

The grave once a melody,
now mourns over it.
The memories once charm,
now hide of it.
The steps once a rhythm,
now silence it.
The heart once loving
now guards it. 

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Bushra Mustafa
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