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the Message Continues ... 11/86



Newsletter for October 2008


            Article 1 - Article 2 - Article 3 - Article 4 - Article 5 - Article 6 - Article 7 - Article 8 - Article 9 - Article 10 - Article 11 - Article 12





The Books!
Okasha Batool Naqvi

The books though sleep,

They watch me,

They breathe within my soul,

Laugh they do upon my,

Every selfish goal.

How amongst the years,

They have sat and watched,

My youth turn gray

And old. 


Alas Alas!

The stupidity of sleep!

The boredom and sweet-found

Playfulness I thought would help me one day?

But no,

How quickly like the silk in my hand

I reach for time,

Yet the harder I grasp,

The quicker it slips away.


These books,

Their spines have been bound,

Sewn together with the kiss of knowledge,

Flowing into eternity,

A smoke, a fragrance,

Ready to drown us in its truth,

It's purity.

These books!

How lying on on these shelves,

They have become my close relatives.

Attending every affair,

Every birthday and function.

Quietly they sit and watch,

Like elders so often do,

They watch me and say nothing,

Yet wait for when I will run to them,

Run to this fountain of knowledge

And wisdom…dyeing of thirst.

When will that day be !


When will I wake and greet the dawn before it greets me,

Already halfway through its travels,

Spinning, churning around the sun,

Churning the silk of time.

Will I let the blood of these writers

Die in vain?

Will I let their burning candles,

Guiding them through the dark nights

So they may guide the world with their pen,

Burn out?


When oh when?

Oh how I cry to myself.

We once too often fall into the trap

Of looking at other's lives,

So caught up in the decor of living,

We are running towards a mirage

We see the water,

But really we are dyeing hopeless,

Without direction in a desert,

And the earth which we tread upon,

How its bowels laugh at us!

Oh how they laugh


Because gold can be melted,

Money cannot suffice the priceless,

Beauty ages with time,

And man dies with his obsessions,

Yet the immortality of the word,

Wisdom of the pen,

Oh even after we die my dear friend,

Even after our homes deep inside the earth cocoon us into our misery.

  The ink of a writer

Never, ever dies!







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