You are still inside me

You were there in a deep sleep

As if you had forgotten to breathe

Eyes half shut, half opened

I went near and looked

Your mouth was open

As if you were going to speak.

I was expecting that you would call my name

Once again we would play that ludo game

I am ready to let you win

Because I love your face with grin


Suddenly, everyone surrounded you

Flowers and garlands mounted you

Some people carried your bed

Wrapping you with a white garment


I was still expecting

You were just acting,

The way you used to tease me before

With the sound of your snore


This time, you didn't wake up

Rather people started to make up

The woods for your pyre

To burn you in the fire


I was still there in front of you

Thinking that the fire would hurt you

But everyone was busy in the mob

And my feelings rolled down through the sob


When the fire started engulfing

You’re each body parts turn by turn

My heart started scratching

Searching for your soul on and on


I searched you in the river

Flowing beside you

I searched you in the smoke

Hovering just above you


Finally when you turned completely in to ashes

I found you in the laces,

Of my heart

Where sweet memories entangled


You are still inside me

Completely with me

All the time,

Now no tensions, no work loads

You are completely free

Deep inside within me

By
Bhawana Shrestha
Country: Nepal

The Witch

My eyes watched

as her teary eyes begged:

wanting me, as adult

to come to her defense.

I looked in her face

and my head I shook:

with my very mouth,

I pronounced her witch

It was the mark:

the scar so black,

the stutter in her speech,

both things can only from a demon come

As I threw the rock a thought occurred:

her stutter might be result of illness,

the scars so black may be marks from exorcism.

As I stared at her lifeless body, a passerby asked:

‘Who has more guilt,

a suspected witch, or the one who kills her?’

By Adejoh Idoko Momoh

* The poem serves to highlight the condemnation of young Nigerian girls mostly in the South South region as witch children and their eventual lynching or exorcism. The children, thought to be witches, are abandoned, tortured and killed by their own families and communities.

Fettered Fancy

Oh, My Adam and Eve!!

Know, it takes time to heal

The wounds of infidelity,

The scratches of betrayal.

Fears of tossing coins every moment

And flipping of right and wrong,

Is no easy to be subdued.

It require ages, subsiding the pain

Of loss and letting go.

Woes of learning and yearnings of love!

And of wrong decisions,

Yeah, “nothing is more painful than learning”.

Agony of being judged

Of trials and assessments

Is not beyond your courage..!

But suffering is a necessity to polish the jewel

Be fearful and not be afraid!

Do fall but be righteous and repentant!

Unveil your path

But destiny will follow you

"Wish and imagine"

But for that

Bear the longings of tattered heart

Stand against the tethered longings

Be stoical and obliged

And only then

There’ll be hidden treasure somewhere

Will be bestowed on your heart

The peace and serenity

Until then

Keep yelling but keep going

Because there is no choice to quit

Or any way for quitters

Now, go!

Go and make your own world of dreams

Live the life you want to create

Pursue, what’s in your heart

You are free to go!

Oh you innocent being,

Think, choose, and decide!

Think on your own

Follow your own paths!

But beware

From now on, you’re in a hoax!

By Mubashra Manzoor

Poetry for Peace

Poetry for Peace

 Join us to celebrate "International Peace Day 2013"

All young poets are welcome to participate.

There are two themes

"Education for Peace"

"Poetry for Peace"

to know more about the event just visit

https://www.facebook.com/events/222331271264300/

The Strength of Meaning

The Strength of Meaning

A crowd, a square, a computer screen,
Banners rattle and voices scream
Rants, revolts, clamour and claims,
A cause is distorted and maimed
Through the temperamental cry
Of revolutionaries gone awry
By bloodlust and greed for rebellion,
Their conflicts just a collection
Of proud and empty demonstrations
Of individualism that shuns
The true goal of collective action for real change.

Not just Facebook likes or retweets.
Yet there they are on the streets:
"Say it louder!", they say, bracing
Themselves, adrenaline racing
With anticipation of clashes
Of opinion or real damage
"We need the attention", they say,
(Which could be read another way)
"Raise the sign higher! The cameras
Must record how we shatter glass"
No matter the innocent owner,
His shop and prospects left to smoulder
For all they care: their voices must be heard!

But here is the catch, my friend-
"No time! March, March!"
Democracy cannot just depend
On slogans chanted at the behest
Of the media obsessed
"Louder! Chant louder!"
Their meaningless search for vain glory,
To appear on the biggest story:
They are missing the point.
"What are you waiting for? LOUDER, I SAY!"

Listen.

Without that, there can never be true strength in those loud voices.

by Valentina Iricibar
Buenos Aires, Argentina
Universidad Torcuato Di Tella

unpredictable faces

Some unpredictable faces
Drown me into thoughts
Why heart beats are so elongated?

Those people, having influential gestures
Pretending their serenity
Then, I wedged hurdles behind the souls

Those parched lips
Have nothing to utter
Trying to elucidate the mystery, why they are living?

Light returns after every night
Happiness appears beyond the tears
That hope, will soon bring reasons to their lives

by Umair Asif

Old Ravian/Activist

Pakistan

Resurrection

Resurrection

Deeds and behaviours that torture the mind,

Which I have seen the true face of mankind!

Snooper by nature, and loquacious by face,

They vilify others for their personal sake.

The beast with thousand masks,

How keen to do specious tasks!

Fed up with misappropriation and ostentation,

I become misanthrope and opted isolation.

They ostracized me, claimed as dead;

Labeled as peevish and cunning they said.

Stay away from them I just warn;

I am not dead, I’m born.

By Farwa Shafqat

Old Ravian

Pakistan