Are the people we write approximately,The only ones that exist?
These days,
They say, or It’s impossible to be alive,Without a voice,
A presence.
You’ve stopped asking why, and But still they say,It’s important the world remembers,
Remembers that you exist.
But there are those, or Who exist (and acquire existed),Without a word,
Who believe and act, and And prefer not to write.
Who live,And stand comfortably next to death,
Unafraid, and Unprotesting.
These people,Hold on to their thoughts,
Peeking at them at nights, or And pushing them deep inside long overcoats during the day.
They derive pleasure in the most insignificant things,And belittle the most significant ones,
Who are these people?
Who leave without a trace, or Without fanfare,Or memorials,
Or movies that display their pictures, and Nor can people trace the length of their smiles,Nor are children named after them.
And not even the bench has their imprints anymore.
But maybe, we should call back our eyes, or And search,now, in other places.
Which ones?
In silent sighs, and Which reach unknowingly.
In words,They unconsciously added or took out,
From a family’s trove of vocabulary.
In a presence, and Which has stayed on,Lingering,
In the resting space of a dimple, and In the heat of a long afternoon,During sleepless nights,
In the certainty of a smile, or The taste of a tear,The weight of an unknown silence,
And often in an incomplete thought.
Are they the only ones who are happy?
Because they don’t need to be remembered, and And now since,Their hiding places acquire been divulged,
acquire they gone elsewhere?
Source: tribune.com.pk