Writing

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 ...

Translation — my English rendering of Allama Iqbal’s original. 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. ...

Translation — my English rendering of Allama Iqbal’s original. I translated this poem in my freshman year for my English class. This is a world of miracles for you. But for me, this is the world of randomness. The world of fantasies is poor, But poorer is the world of births and deaths. It is no wonder that your gaze will change it all, The world of possibilities is calling you. ...