Writings

Ayden was a curious and adventurous five-year-old boy who loved nothing more than riding in his favorite monster truck, Blue Thunder. He spent hours each day practicing and perfecting his skills, always dreaming of one day becoming a professional Monster Jam driver. One day, as Ayden was practicing his jumps in the backyard, he suddenly found himself soaring higher and higher into the air. Before he knew it, he was hurtling through the atmosphere, leaving the Earth far behind. ...

Mirza Ghalib was the one of the greatest Urdu poet from 19th century. I translated this poem for a school project. I look at the joys of this world, as I look at the dust. Crying used to give me pleasure but now my eyes have gone dry. When I am dead, wind might take my dust to my destination. Because now I have no more strength to continue. For whom are these preparations of welcome, who is this lover from the heaven? All I see is flowers, and nothing else. My love has left me capable of nothing. Now I just wish to live quietly somewhere. Asad, my poetry is for times past. It is useless to write, when no one understands.

Who is that is I Still lost in my mind. Trying to find my purpose, When there might not be one. The first thing was writing Can words truly change anything? Why should I write, When there is so much noise Are you in that house, Or are you out here. I will give up now, This desert is just too vast. My voice will not reach you, Is this even a language. What is music when there is no rhythm. Why should I write, When I have nothing to say. Wrote this poem long time ago, it seems it is still applicable. ...

Stop crying, this is just the beginning of love. Hold on and see what will be next. In the morning, there were voices in the caravan. Let's move on and let the sleeper sleep. On this ground nothing can grow. Please stop planting seeds of hopes in your heart. These are marks of true love, they remain forever. It is not possible to wash them away from your heart. Time was more important than anything else in my life. And Mir, I wasted my time foolishly. This was another college project, I translated this poem by Mir Taqi Mir. ...

It was a school or temple, or was it Makkah or a church. We were all guests, only you were the host. Oh! How sad it is. I found just before death. It was only a dream, what I saw. It was only a fairy tale, what I heard. How sad it is that autumn is in the garden. There was some grass, which was my friend. This place is getting chaotic with all these people coming and going. My heart used to be the place for your peace. It is useless to remember them, try to be happy. Dard, it is not important if they remember me or not. Mir Dard was a sufi poet from India. I translated this poem for college project. ...

You are neither for earth nor for the heavens. The world is for you; you are not for the world. This garden is the place for pain and prayer. Not for picking flowers or building a nest. How long will you stay in the rivers of Ravi, Nile, and Farat? Your ship was built for infinite oceans. It was nothing, what we have exaggerated. We made it more, just for our fantasies. ...

O my friend, a heart does not need hate. All love good but do not even hate bad. Who does not want the softness of flowers? But do not be afraid of sharpness of thorns. There is same blood in the veins of the thorn. It is brought up by same evening breeze of the spring. Do not throw away dying flowers. Yesterday, they were the glamor of the garden. Once they were also part of the world of perfumes. O passerby! Do not kick dust on their leaves. Though they are no longer in the feast. They were raised in the laps of same morning breeze. ...

Feeling so empty, and hollow inside, Cannot believe I am writing a poem to a cigarette, but I feel so unsatisfied, unfulfilled, like this poem, half-finished.

In this hot desert heat, you were a cool breeze gone in a moment just as you came, left me behind to wonder if you will ever return to mess up my hair, to touch my thirsty lips softly you were a sweet dream, vanished with the stars in the morning leaving me to wake up in the blinding sunlight, to look for a shade where there are no trees ...

This poem was written by my favorite poet Allama Iqbal. I translated it for my English class during my freshman year. “The view up here is the same as ever. We are tired of shining and shining. Our work is to walk, day and night. Walk and walk and walk forever. Everything in this universe is anxious. Peace, whatever it is, does not exist. Everything is being tortured by time. ...