Let me rub the sleep
that dusts superfluity
from my eyes
under my thumbnails dies the sparrow
yearning for a brave new Pakistan
at last
with the final squeaks of the parrot
perhaps that day will never be
I have not chest and shoulder
enough
to include all the birthing problems
of this bleeding psyche
but have heart now
to create in this Pakistan
a galvanism to stir
contagious glory from the tattered cob-webs
hung in shreds
in the lonely nooks of our minds
from the paradigmatic personality of the faded
heroes of yesterday
perhaps that day will never be
for our yesteryears Delacroix paints
our todays stand splashed
in infant confusion
in instant chaos
and harbor no promise
of genius
or even sanity.
There must seems be
an ancient Sanskrit curse
over me
but
yet awhile
that great heart of Umar
beats in me
and Ali’s hand holds my sword
perhaps that day will never be
find in my land
openness and brotherhood
and in that lost Islam
a beechen plot to lie in
of mottled pages
while moths wing out.
Standing bow-legged
in the dim corridors of
myopic history
I suck at the lollipops of the past
for reprieve
find tolerance and tenets
of emerald Islam
crying
it’s now or never
perhaps that day will never be
but perhaps it may
then I change it sure.
