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Jul 2020 · 200
Arshia Qasim Jul 2020
I thought I was unduly bent
with the burden on my head
No heart had ears that understood
the tales my face had said

I thought the path had sifted me
away from smoother stones
Where everything is forsaken
and no one truly owns

I thought and thought and thought some more
till I no longer; saw
For eyes, that I knew not I had
widened to stirring awe

In tumblements, I had arrived
to the hall of cynosures
where souls lit up in endurance
and patience opened doors

Accepted for defectiveness
revered for differences
Collected, all, in being dispersed,
closer for distances

Had fate and path not made me, me
and storms made waves I ride
and then I took all I held in
and looked around, outside

It brings you. where you need to be
it gives, what you require;
To then, become what you were, always
waiting, beyond desire.


For unexpected realizations, I am #thankful
Sometimes the need is to look inside. Sometimes it is to look outside from the inside.
This poem arrived after I spoke to a lady whose daughter with special needs had passed away at age 25. Having lost my mother recently after a long illness and having a younger brother with special needs, I could talk about the challenges of disability, bereavement and so much more with her and I realised our shared experiences had brought us to a place where we understood and also stood apart.
Apr 2020 · 103
Arshia Qasim Apr 2020
احتمالی بندشوں میں جانفشانی قید ہے
کر کے دیکھیں وار تو پھر زعم ہوگا آر پار

Zeal is restrained
in the boundaries
of “what-if”s
Give it a go, so you
know, whether
your claim lives !

Couplet and translation ©️Arshia.
Apr 2020 · 174
Never-Ending Ending
Arshia Qasim Apr 2020
I’ve lost count of the weeks.
Grief has made its own calendar.
The pandemic stopped what ambition started
I surrender.

4th March 2020:

My mother has died
I can't close my eyes tonight
not because I am afraid of falling asleep
but of waking up in a tomorrow
where she does not exist.
Behold, the audacity!
I never accepted night,
and still, the sun creeps up
across the jagged Tokyo skyline
ascending the tower ladder,
bouncing off windows,
pushing apart curtains
pouring in from all crevices
as the city flips up
person by person,
onto its stuporous hustle,
as if nothing happened.

Amazing Grace:

A million poems came to hold up my heart
as it fell apart
in my mother's death
I had prepared for this moment,
but what preparations suffice,
when air is wrenched away from breath?
I could write the saddest lines,
sadder than Neruda's
but the tales of her glory
have a more engaging story
to tell.
What would she have said
when she saw herself tagged
in her obituary?
she always counted the likes
and read the comments I receive,
rejoicing momentarily,
in what, she claimed, was borrowed fame.
And now I grieve.
My frantic efforts to capture screenshots
whenever we face-timed,
so I could hoard
her presence.
Oh, bless her essence!
even though her skin-clad bones
had lost the cushion of flesh,
even though the bruit
of the fistula in her left arm terrified me
like a constant 'low-battery' signal,
when she managed to hug me, breathlessly,
that last time,
it was an exchange
of the most amazing grace:
her pain wrapped in patience,
mine in gratitude.

Retrospecti­ve Realizations:

And suddenly,
I remember all the condolence messages I have ever written
and retrospectively fill them
with feel, only now revealed to me.
My best compassion and empathy paled in comparison
to this reality.
Death is inevitable; mortality, inescapable.
but life,
with its enticing persistence to carry on,
is cruel.

The poem ends but the pain doesn't:

The real mourning starts
when the visitors leave
and the phone calls end
and the messages stop pouring in,
when you have to resume living
but the dead can't un-die.


Arshia Qasim Jun 2019
Far enough but still so close
A pain I earned, the ache I chose
I recognise, but can’t relate  
The circumstance compels this wait
As I stand by, and you become
Recalling some, forgetting some
I feel you, though not hand in hand
I know, I see, I understand!

Mindful of what lies ahead
I want to look behind instead
Or glaze past all uncertainty
And wake up when in clarity

Almond scented, jasmine hued
Chocolate smooth and zest imbued
O caress of sure hands
Full as skies, deep as lands
I may not be with you right now
But we are always synced somehow
The journey of a teardrop
From the rim to when it stops
A trace of love, on sands of time
That renders our lives sublime

Grow, engage, enhance, affect
Shine on, but also, pause, reflect
This is the space, between the two
from no longer...... to not just yet


Love, separation, remembrance .
May 2019 · 186
From perspective to truth.
Arshia Qasim May 2019
My search of one
remained futile
I had no skill
nor had I guile

But when I picked
with both my hands
some bits of stars
some fists of sands

I found that 'all'
for me was 'one'
And I was all
or I was none!

Dec 2018 · 531
What ifs
Arshia Qasim Dec 2018
احتمالی بندشوں میں جانفشانی قید ہے
کر کے دیکھیں وار تو پھر زعم ہوگا آر پار

Zeal is restrained
in the boundaries
of “what-if”s
Give it a go, so you
know, whether
your claim lives !

Couplet and translation ©️Arshia.
Arshia Qasim Dec 2018
Have you ever had an open box of cornflakes
slip out of your hands
(at the precise time you were constructing a poem in your head)
and scatter all over the kitchen
like the fragile egos of self righteous partisans
(creating a bigger mess if you trample them)
and thus, you find yourself on all fours
sweeping a recently swept floor
once more.....

We’re brought up looking for divine expedience in any mishap that happens:  
“Maslehat” they say.... there must be a hidden benefit in this!
“it’s a small loss in lieu of a bigger one that it prevented”...
....and we tune our frequencies from ambition to complacency....
year after year,
generation after generation,
till that becomes the default station.....

I even start looking at the benefits hidden in the mess at hand...
I’ve discovered crevices under the stove where my cleaner never reaches,
(now I can prepare an admonition for her
—-wouldn’t have happened without the corn flakes.... thank you!)
I imagine worse scenarios.... it could have been the bag of flour, or the spice jars .... or.... glass bottles.
The work instantly becomes less tedious, as I weigh it against shards of glass and invisible weapons of potential exsanguination....
oh shukar , shukar, shukar..... Alhamdulillah.
It’s ok, it’s only cornflakes....  

It’s only cornflakes, and my attitude.... ( that’s in question)
keeping things together, even when they’re crumbling,
cleaning up messes, and counting on second guesses,
Using crafting glue and bluetac to hold up foundations
( this doesn’t merit any recommendation!)

A friend once said, “ sometimes you have to let it break, so that you can build it better....”
but what is better, when each damage is a consecration  
that is the conundrum of creation
it’s all a substrate
it’s all a message
its all salvation
I had told my friend, “listen I don’t know how to use metaphors,
and I only have a few of my own,
will you give me some on loan?
I need them to break and remake my ache.... “
The silence meant yes.
I could take all the phrases,
all beautiful words, all dictions, all praises
In these clumsy hands, ( since the heart understands)
And if I spill them like cornflakes,
no matter what it takes,
I’ll find a way, to scoop them in a poem.

These events actually occurred
Arshia Qasim Dec 2018
I sent my senses
out across the galaxy...
From the farthest corners
to highest peaks
to deepest caverns
I sent my defences
in the other direction
knocking walls
between thoughts, feelings, reveries
rummaging through memories

The squads returned empty
having wreaked havoc
inside and out

In the meantime
inspiration called, and left
to find me absent.

Writers life, inspiration
Oct 2018 · 214
The curator’s workspace
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
With what I see, I draft a sketch
(and not how it should be)
I fill details, with all your loves
minutiae like Versailles, and such
colour here, a sculpture
there, a broken heart, alcoves
wainscotted with toil(e). some
envy carvings, poetry: a decoupage
of words,
said over years, re-cited
into countless tears,
ripened ensilage and patterns
recognised surprise,
through my hand I trace a line.
How I see, what I beget, is
defined as mine
stand and be yourself
through traffic, silence, and mindset
and if you don’t remember, know
that I do.not forget.
Love is curation.
Oct 2018 · 166
A summer day in Budapest
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
a thought diary:

Now the ratio of exhaustion and ambition is just right
Now the need to respond to each stimulus is subdued
How the curtains have cleared between sight and insight
How the walls have crumbled on each lofty feud

All this while, time unwinds with its every revolution
And the axis of the roll is tethered to rest
Whosoever can withstand the decree of absolution
Will remain unperturbed with the purpose of the test

From the cafe-fed pigeons and the debris-drunken bees
To the mendicants and paupers on the streets of the famed
I do ponder the encounters that happen in your being
Some I know, still there are all the countless and unnamed

On the ripples in Danube river scribbled with light
The distinct reflection of serene Budapest
And the splendour of adsorbing all dimensions of ‘might’
Till you don’t have to prove yourself to the rest

On your face, I can trace , all the lines of an epic
Every fold is two sided: one gory and one glory
I chose love, all above, for in the maze of theoretic
There are so many ways to tell the same story

It’s what I learn in struggle that I convey in song
What I earn in endurance , I adorn in grace
Thus every gain, with its pain, does truly belong
One has to burn in the soul to light up ones face

You have the same hospitality for all your guests
Whoever loves you more, will perceive more of you
It’s the lived experience that defines the quest
It’s the intent, not content that sanctifies Wudu

But still I wonder all the loves that embellish your ways
And the promises in your narratives that echoingly roam
the same streets I tread and the same night and days
As I lose myself in you while I’m looking for my home

Travel is a state of mind, and home, a station of the heart
How far we go is measured from where we start
You’ll see, in the trajectory of an encircling path
Aein, our beginnings and ends are never apart.

Oct 2018 · 185
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
گزر کر ساری جہتوں سے وہیں پر عین آ پہنچی
تمہارے تک مسافت میں نیا چکر سہی ، ہمدم

Having traversed all dimension, I’m back where I began
Oh beloved, in my journey towards you, hence starts another span

Couplet and translation. ( mine)
Oct 2018 · 187
Poems on wings
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
Fluttering by
Quivering by
Oscillating their coloured wings
The delicate butterflies of my poems
From one thought to the other
On the branch of words
Come, pause, rest, and fly away
A moment here
A moment there
And then who knows where
And in their pursuit, with every breath
From one motif to the next
From one night to the other
I run around, armed with the net of imagination
So that I may touch them
With the softness of the caress, my fingers
Reach their tips....
They disperse their iridescence
On my hands
And instantaneously
Fly away some where else...  

Poem and translation: ©️Arshia.
پھڑپھڑاتی ہوئی
لہلہاتی ہوئی
اپنے رنگیں پروں کو ہلاتی ہوئی
میری نظموں کی نازک سی یہ تتلیاں
سوچ سے سوچ تک
لفظ کی ڈال پر
آکے رکتی، ٹھہرتی، بہکتی چلیں
ایک لحظہ یہاں
ایک لحظہ وہاں
پھر نہ جانے کہاں
اور ان کے تعاقب میں میں دم بدم
بات سے بات تک
رات سے رات تک
جال لے کر تخیل کا بھاگی پھروں
کہ انہیں چھو سکوں
لمس کی نازکی سے مری انگلیاں
کپکپاتی ہوئی
ان سے جا کر ملیں
تو وہ اپنی دھنک
چھوڑ کر ہاتھ پر
آن کی آن میں
اور کہیں چل پڑیں۔۔۔۔


Fluttering by
Quivering by
Oscillating their coloured wings
The delicate butterflies of my poems
From one thought to the other
On the branch of words
Come, pause, rest, and fly away
A moment here
A moment there
And then who knows where
And in their pursuit, with every breath
From one topic to the next
From one night to the other
I run around ,
armed with the net of imagination
So that I may touch them
With the softness of the caress, my fingers
Reach their tips ....
They disperse their iridescence
On my hands
And instantaneously
Fly away some where else...  

Poem and translation: ©️Arshia.
Oct 2018 · 137
All eyes on me
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
عین یہ شیشے کی نگری، نقص گننا چھوڑ دے !
جو دِکھیں اوروں میں ہوں نہ خود تمہارے دیکھنا

Aein, this is a house of mirrors, stop counting who is defected
Flaws you see in others, may just be your own, reflected!

Urdu couplet and translation, ©️Arshia
Oct 2018 · 147
Love’s fault
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
This is what love does....
It makes you see
the resolve behind the result
the drudge behind the demeanor
the struggle behind the strength
and to what all the ache amounts.
This is what love does
It makes you aware
right there
where it counts.
When I saw my mom’s picture where she’s dressed up to go to a students reunion after having been housebound for 9 months since she broke her leg.
Oct 2018 · 127
If wishes were horses...
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
ملا تو پھر نہ رہے گا جوازِ شکوہ گری
جو مانگنا ہو تو یہ حوصلہ ضروری ہے

If you get it, you will have no justification of complaint
When asking for something, this fortitude must be ascertained

Couplet and translation ©️Arshia
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
I’m feeling beautiful today.

Is it because
of this dress of velvet
like molten sapphire
against my skin
or the shimmering gold
a finest thread
lining my silhouette
in a filigree thin
Is it the mascara line
curving out
and making my lashes
flutter and sway
or the tint of pink
in a creamy blush
that on my cheeks
has come to stay
is it the curl in my lips
a contrived pout
or the click of my heels
on the floor it clouts
the bangles on my wrist
that sing as they jingle
the sparkling earlobes
as the earrings ******
is it the perfumed rose
that blooms in my scent
or the coiffured scarf
a colored accent
is it the swing in my gait
or my elusive trait
it is my voice, my gaze
or how, when i talk
my pupils dilate….

I feel beautiful today,
but i do not know why
i have thought all day
and now dark draws nigh
I feel beautiful today
so I should enjoy….

Oct 5, 2014
Oct 2018 · 283
What Poetry is for me.
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
Poetry is the stray puppy
That I offered a drink
And then it wouldn’t leave my heel
Following me wherever I went
Till I was spent trying to shoo it away
Imagine my dismay
Every time I threw a stick , in the hope I would lose it,
It would bring back two
And leave them by my feet
Like sacred offerings
Its big puppy eyes imploring me to accept
Its tongue hanging
It’s tail wagging
Each oscillation an interruption
To my life....
It wouldn’t let me concentrate on what I needed to do
Till I forgot what it was that I was doing...
and in responses all I got was a happy bark, and another round of play.

Till finally one day, it didn’t come back.
My aim had improved,
I had thrown its chase track off my ability,  
it followed the futility
and was led astray.....

I had always wanted it that way!
Didn’t I?
So why, now that all of my heart was mine
I was somehow, un-fine
Something, something, that I could not define!
Now I looked for the puppy
All all paths I knew
In all directions I could see
In all dimensions I could be,
Till I finally found it,
Hiding, whimpering, scared, in me.

Poetry for me, was the unwelcome guest
That taught me we don’t always get to  chose
Sometimes we are chosen.

Written in extemporaneous response to a friend poet’s ( Skip Maselli’s) poem who examined what poetry is for him.
Oct 2018 · 305
Fall in tall buildings
Arshia Qasim Oct 2018
High rise buildings don’t shed leaves.
And the trees are too far below to be seen.
‘Fall’ carries a different context in concrete
With gravity at play, its threatens to be mean....

There are pockets where nature is trimmed to size
And planted to add value to unreal estate
I should miss the mess, the sights and the eyes
And instead I watch my senses acclimate.

A pumpkin cinnamon latte, in Starbucks terms
Offers cultured aspirants a slice of respite
I am not ungrateful, but I can still reminisce
Not because of my earnestness but despite....

Memory of colours, orchestrates fall
A cacophony of wistfulness without a plot
I can’t even pretend it is autumn in my mind,
When the artifice around me is still so hot.

Arshia Qasim Nov 2017
There is a certain romance of incomplete stories
and unrequited passion....
A certain heroism , in unfulfilled ambitions and sacrificed wants ...
(There is also
Selfishness in altruism,
Mockery in humility...
Fragility of pretenses,
Deception of senses,
Armors of sensitivities...
all those nitty gritties,
paradoxes that haunt
etc, but then...)

Sometimes this happens,
love stays and we go.

Sometimes this happens,
there is no beginning, nor end:
through “ifs” and “buts”
priorities distend
the space between, what is seen and what has been.

I picked your hopes with my eyelashes
and thatched together a shade for us
You caught my fall in the web of your thoughts,
softening for me, the landing, and thus,
we built a dream.  

Sometimes this happens
the stars are buried in the desert sands
the lines dissect though you’re holding hands
but for the heart that understands....

it’s all divine. Not yours nor mine.

Sometimes this happens
one understands, but it’s not enough
one knows, but accepting is still pretty rough

You may have all ingredients
but you still need a “here” and a “now”
no question of why? or what? or how...

Sometimes this happens
the wait becomes unbearable
so remember that you know....
time is deceptive
and it’s already tomorrow in Tokyo

Nov 26/27, 2017
Nov 2017 · 332
Arshia Qasim Nov 2017
Facing a mirror
wiping last night’s makeup
from my eyes...
And I wonder
if ever
I could wipe off the lies
that the heart believes true
about You.
Apr 2017 · 2.3k
The perfect woman
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
The perfect woman
is beautiful, of course
but not too beautiful,
( enough to be objectify-able
but not so much as to be threatening)

The perfect woman
has a voice and a mind
( that she wisely decides
to leave behind)

The perfect woman
should never be heard
( unless she becomes
a part of the herd)

The perfect woman
Is benign and blind
( to everyone's faults
except her own,
which also, btw, she ought to make known,
or god forbid, she'll be harkened a *****,
How rude.....)

The perfect woman
Is coy and shy
(changing her demeanor
for a girl or a guy)

The perfect woman
Does nothing wrong (yeah right)
(and still doesn't get
why she can't belong)

The perfect woman
Knows her salad forks and plates
She encourages, she nourishes
She creates,
(she waits, she waits , she waits)

The perfect woman
is an overachiever
(but readily labeled
to be a deceiver)

The perfect woman
doesn't age
doesn't dream or rebel
Oh no, dear no....
none of that outrage

The perfect woman
can be a nymph and a nun
(knows how to not show
that she knows what is fun)

The perfect woman,
is curvy but thin
each angle defined
each strand refined
with a dazzling smile
and a glowing skin
(no matter how she gets it
It's that she gets it, she gets it.)

The perfect woman
Is strong and composed
But when she's patronized
She doesn't resist...
She carries her grace
on her well turned calf
and a delicate wrist
Till it's proper and unopposed

The perfect woman
is cruel to her daughter
and kind to her son
( as she knows what it means
to be a woman
even if she forgets
that she's also one...)

The perfect woman
doesn't want to be free
you see, it's simple
She's come to terms with the very concept
That it's her destiny

Let's say this, let's try....
Here's the gist
The perfect woman
is either every woman
or she doesn't exist.
Apr 2017 · 277
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
"Where did you go ? " he asked
"In your album", she replied. " you're the collector , aren't you?
" you collect everything:
Sunsets, clouds, melting snow
Falling stars, shadows,
fireflies in jars
butterflies in nets
hurts, regrets
lovers ........
You throw a hook and cut a slice out of them, for keepsake
and render them useless,
like clipped nails....

and then you preserve them
mummified and exalted like they were never when alive
each sentiment, pickled in the brine of your words
each encounter , framed and hung in the museum of "could haves"

But I,
I am the soil.
I can never collect!
I only renew.
I drizzle rain of tears and draw minerals out of my darkest depths
I soak in everything that the cosmos strews at me
I shed the leaves of expectations at each fall
and let my pain rot to fertilize my womb
I nurture and protect hope,
so that it grows, blossoms, gives fruit.

I many not have anything to show
for what I've been through,
like you....
but the birds come back to sing
in me. "

Apr 2017 · 837
What stays, what goes
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
A stallion pure and thorough bred
With sinewy limbs and a regal head
Entranced a maiden:  coy, fragile
Her naïveté peeking through her guile
The touch of skin on skin, ablaze
The arching back, the dreamy gaze
Oblivious to the world around
When hearts were lost and hearts were found
They rode around without a care
With hair afloat a back stripped bare
Through wind and water, sky and sand
They trod the depth and breadth of land
Love melding with the sunset's hues
With ochres, crimsons, lilacs, blues
She held him firm as 'e sprinted on
Her hands alive on 'is rippling brawn
Both breathless, panting, fit to drop
By a trove of aspen, came to stop
They laid down on the cooling grass
And watched the stars in heaven's pass.
The moments' magic, in their midst
Where gift of fate their presence kissed
The sound of stillness filled the air
To interject , neither could dare
In the conversations of the souls
No words suffice, nor phrases hold
Each secret there that instant shared
All love exchanged, and none was spared.

By the morning sun, came duty's hail
And both knew what devoirs entail
To be with each , although they longed
Of different earths, their loam belonged
They thought, they planned, they tried devise
But union came at a selfish price
In a firm embrace they held on tight
Accepting it was a time not right
And bravely to departure led
Through aching ******* good byes were said
A part of each, with the other sent
For a farewell isn't where love should end
So holding on their transformed heart
On the stage of life, resumed their part
And each then took their separate way
no matter what, wherever they stay
for rest of time, they had had that day
for rest of time, they had had that day!
Apr 2017 · 378
The suspended moments
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
Thus, halfway along the journey
a life interrupted me
even if I try,
I can not decipher it
where will it lead
I can not see
This duration of suspended moments
searches its destination
in dimmed tracings
As if half parted lips
are a sigh
and a kiss
and an affirmation
As if, half mast eyes
are a prayer
and modesty
and a secret
As if the touching of hands
runs through the veins
as electricity
and inebrience
As if on seeing the mirror
all your faults
face you,
and sometimes, understanding, too
This duration of suspended moments
searches its destination
in dimmed tracings
The seven colors of the rainbow
it weaves in the braid
of this tale of conquest and triumph
This duration of suspended moments
is my destiny
In it lies this soul
in it lies this body

Urdu Version:

یوں آ کے آدھے رستے پہ
ملی اک زندگی مجھ کو
سمجھنا بھی اگر چاہوں
تو عقدہ کھل نہیں پاتا
کہاں کس موڑ په لائے
نظر میں یہ نہیں آتا
معلق ساعتوں کی یہ گھڑی
دھندھلے ھوئے نقشوں میں
اپنی منزلیں ڈھونڈھے
کے جیسے ادھ کھلےلب
آہ بھی
بوسہ بھی
اور اقرار بھی
کے جیسے نیم وا آنکھیں
دعا بھی
اور حیا بھی
اور کوئی اسرار بھی
کے جیسے ہاتھ کا چھونا
رگوں میں
آتشیں بن کر بہے
خمار بھی
کے جیسے آئینہ دیکھیں
تو سارے عیب
خود کے روبرو آئیں
کبھی پھر پیار بھی
معلق ساعتوں کی یہ گھڑی
دھندھلے ھوئے نقشوں میں
اپنی منزلیں ڈھونڈھے
قزح کے سات رنگوں کو
شکست و جذب کی اس داستاں کی
زلف میں گوندے
معلق ساعتوں کی یہ گھڑی
میرا مقدر ہے
اسی میں روح ہے میری
اسی میں خاک پیکر ہے
Apr 2017 · 875
Where's God?
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
یقینوں کی سرحد، سوالوں سے آگے
گمانوں سے اوپر، خیالوں سے آگے
حقیقت کی پہچان باطن سے جاگے
دلیلوں سے بالا، حوالوں سے آگے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
جلایت سماوی، تپش منتہیٰ ہے
ذرائع ، وسیلے، نشاں, استعارے
قدم دو قدم ساتھ چلتے سہارے
سبھی راستوں پر توکل زمینیں
سبھی گردشوں میں مقابل جبینیں
ہجومِ سلاسل میں قلبِ مجرد
جہاں نہ رسائی ہو ایسی وہ خلوت
وہاں کوئی نفسی، خودی، نہ انا ہے
مری سوچ کی جس جگہ انتہا ہے
وہاں پر خدا ہے، وہاں بھی خدا ہے


The dominion of faith is beyond the line of questions
Above the strata of  probabilities
Ahead of the limits of imaginations
Recognition of truth arises from within
Independent of reasoning and evidence
Unaffected by references and certifications.
Where is the boundary of my awareness?
Heavenly light, infinite candescence  
Resources, means, symbolisms, provenance
Temporary camaraderies and companionships...
On all paths, the ground is made of tawakul
In all circumvolutions, brows are directed centrally
In the swarm of connectivity, the core remains vacant
Where nothing can reach, such is the solitude there
Where there is no person, no self, no ego
Where there is the boundary of my awareness
There is God! There, too, is God.

Apr 2017 · 384
Between the lines
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
آج کوئی حال پوچھے تو کہوں

بھر چکا ہے دل جوابوں سے مرا
ہے مزین سچ سرابوں سے مرا
اپنے اندر سے میں باہر دیکھتی ہوں
زاویہ مخفی حجابوں سے مرا
یوں بھی ہو خود سے نکل پاؤں کبھی
موم کے شیشے پگھل جائیں سبھی
نور ہے پر اس کے نیچے راکھ ہے
خاک سے کھرچی ہوئی یہ خاک ہے
گو طلاعی ہے چمک اس سوچ کی
کھوکھلی ہے، اس کے اندر لاکھ ہے
کیمیا گر کی ہتھیلی پر اُگی
پھونک کے زد میں یہ اپنی ساکھ ہے
کب تلک اپنے تقرب سے بچوں
کب تلک اپنے تعین سے جچوں
سننے والے ہوں اگر تو بول دوں
قفل ان سب طائروں کے کھول دوں
ورنہ یہ بھی عین ممکن ہی تو ہے
انکہی اک داستاں میں میں رہوں ۔۔۔۔۔
آج کوئی حال پوچھے تو کہوں


My heart is done with answers
My truth is with mirages, adorned
I look from within myself outside
A perspective, on obscurities formed

Maybe I can get out of myself
Maybe the walls of wax can melt
There is light but underneath are ashes
Dust that has been scraped off from dust
Though the shine of thought is like gold
They're hollow, and only filled with gust
Grown on the palm of the alchemist
My facade is in the target of a single breath

How long should I avoid facing the mirror  
How long should I render embellishments
to my impressions
If there are hearers, I can speak
I can unleash the trail of what I seek

Or otherwise this is entirely possible
That it all remains hidden
in the epic never bared
But if one were to ask today,
I would have shared.
Apr 2017 · 331
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
خوبصورت نظر سے جو دیکھے
خوبصورت نظر دکھاتی ہے
شش جہت میں وہی سنائی دے
جو صدا اپنے من سے آتی ہے!

The sight that chooses to see beauty
Is the sight where beauty finds her place
The sound that stirs from within one's core
Is the sound that echos in every space
Apr 2017 · 462
Arshia Qasim Apr 2017
Turn the snowing into poems
and color up a storm...
daunting as it comes to you
and placid when it's gone

Wrap the edges of your thought
encapsulate the cold
Spin magic snowflake carpets
with epics never told

A road runs somewhere through this
though eyes defy my sight
I know, I know you have to go
For now, just hold me tight...



— The End —