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The Blank Papers
by
Uzma Sadaf
I have many pens to write with,
Thousand of papers,
Leaf upon leaf,
Bundle on bundle,
Yet for the last four year,
All of them are lying vacant,
Though my fingers seem to be alright,
The nails are well dressed,
Yet behind these nails,
In the corner of the mind,
There is ice,
All thoughts
On the other side of this fog, in the frost,
Are laying asleep,
And I,
Centuries away from them,
Thousand of miles,
In a lonely room,
Sitting and hiding behind my sobs.
Sometimes it seems,
That this time.
The colourful butterflies,
Would never come back.
The graves will never give signs of life,
It is not possible that the dead may speak,
Those roses which have already bloomed,
How is it possible for them to come back?
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