O' my city!

O' my city!
the city of flowers
face to face with you we have seen the blood
in your streets
that embodied lives.
And the idiot Generals
treacherous politicians
and the Mullas
who have monopoly of God
weaving
and scheming
a devious craft
with precision
grand architectural trap
like a spider
on your soil
could preach nothing
but hatred on your soil.

So...
I know you are grieving
I know you have seen so many sad stories
with your eyes
of an insomniac
stories that you kept safe...
like a treasure
in your chest's wardrobe
but you never complained.

But O' my city
my sweetheart, Look...!
look with your sad eyes, look!
the broken legs of your children
playing in the refugee camps....!
look at the passion in their eyes!
that shows perseverance
and the shine in their eyes
yearning for peace
all this for you my city, my sweetheart.

And see now
my dead body and dead soul
which is awakening
from deep slumber
a witness
that you will emerge
once more
from death to life.
Here again
every child will stand by you
with pride and dignity
to bring once more
what you saw in the years gone bye
peace, tranquility and love.
And then you will proudly say
in the silence of your heart
"I am so proud of you my children!"
then we will smile
get flattered
with our chin up
and will feel proud of you my city
a city
whose every child is but "Khushal Khan"
standing tall like a warrior.


This poem is the continuation of the previous poem-" the story of a city" which ended up on a sad note. The poem is a tribute to my city- Peshawar in general and the people from Swat- (children ) in particular. They are a blessing and a hope for a better tomorrow like a Dawn -knocking at the door of ignorance and darkness and striving for the light and a beautiful "Sahar" morning.