she was a person
not your honour
your pride
she begged you not to
but you burned her alive
there were tears in her eyes
when you snuffed her life out
and you sold your soul
when her light flickered out
her fear will be yours
on the day that you stand
a sinner before his Lord
she was a human
never yours to sacrifice
so cursed be your honour
and hollow be your pride

An autoimmune of a nation,
why are you letting your wrath
stemmed from crisis
burst open like lysosomes?
Why do you digest
yourself and one of your own?
Don't you take pride
when the one who has the same
nation weaved on his skin
uplifts the wavering flag of your land?

Why would you mute
and suppress them
rather than water them,
like the beautiful nature that
blooms from your own ground?
Why would you steal
and harm your brothers and sisters,
letting your mentality succumb
to toxic-narrow confinements?

My father used to bring home kites
from Pakistan,
made out of colorful paper
and thin sticks.

Mine was pink and blue,
and caught my eye as soon
as it was taken out.
It was beautiful,
and i imagined it soaring through
the skies,
viewable from all the houses in town.

The yarn was grey,
and had minuscule shards of glass
woven within it.
My father told me that it was for kite fighting,
the way they used to do it from the rooftops
of the villages.

One would fly the kite
and the other would be in charge of the spool.
Together, they would change altitudes
and attempt to cut other kite strings.
The last kite left in the air would be the winner.

And my mind would run to those rooftops,
the very sand ridden rooftops he had described.
Imaginarily controlling the kite
with a friend handling the spool behind me.
Together winning the kite fighter crown,
and my father being proud of his only son.

All while i lay in bed,
with a grand imagination,
and not a single clue
on how to make the last thought a reality.

Tears fell from the eyes,
and pain still rests in the hearts;
Blood shed from the bodies,
and voices arose from every soul;
people didn't get weak
and they moved for what they seek;
journey of thousand miles,
got completed on a single night;
the pain was a way to gain,
the Nation we call PAKISTAN.

by Samreena Lodhi

Full of wonders is the land of pure
Offers which to all a dose of cure

Mesmerising colours, the white and Green
Came into being, for destined to be clean

To all which spreads, love and joy
Overfilled love for my country oh boy

Yehi surzameen meri jaan o abroo
Mushtamil hai jissay ye mah e roo

Showing the potential all in one wag
Followers and the others, all in one flag

Will I sit on the dirt of the pure, my lifespan
The one which I love to call, my Pakistan<3

Stop killing your daughter,
In the name of honor killing,
Honor,
Which you never feel for her,
So how could she shatter,
That which you never possess!

By: Nida Mahmoed.

When the guests arrived we would hasten to sit in separate rooms.

Quick to cover and observe deep voices through walls,
Men with domed hats and flowing kameez would arrive and wait
for steaming chaaval,
brought in a mound topped with cloves.

Dishes placed and eyes down, they would acknowledge with
half nods,
hairy knuckles to pour the saalan over geometric bowls.

My aunts would hush in the kitchen,
pinning their scarves in a zig-zag fashion.
The colours burning from the tiles,
watching them made me dizzy and inside
I longed
that my plait would one day thread gold like theirs.

Timed silence was a key,
and a pyramid that was never fell,
unlike the tasks that could be
stitched to your hands,
structured stiff – like a testing lap.

Boiled milk in china cups,
there would be nods, gap-tooth smiles, low chatter
with ears pricked to
the humming of satisfaction within.
Sounds through division that showed that yes,
in the right hands
the colours could burn brightly,
and that yes,
in a brush of joint henna,
we would stand separate from your

Vision of us.