tayyeba mustafa

we are humans, we are called humans

striking, florid flowers are clinch of life,
of which all the beauties of life arise,
flowers need appropriate care,
but when the nourishment lacks,
and nector of flower dies,
fade far away the freshness of life.

folks call children as flowers,
who are meant to be fresh as flowers,
nourish in the shades of,
festidious love and lots of cares,
but what if the nourishment lacks,
fade far away the glories of life.

living in slums and filthy dives,
turning into balck, pale, yellow bright,
as some one has stolen their nector,
or squized them to take out all their juice,
slavish, stagnant and garish looks,
shackels and shudders their beautiful hearts,
shivering hands and bare feets,
tatterd cloths and dirty limbs,
husky voice and trembling lips,
pale deep eyes having trivial dreams,
asks for lots of love and lots of care.

these stagnant, slavish looks are heartless humans,
moving and acting like robots,
waiting for the sermon of death to appear.

the best thing about them is,
no one has to go to any specific place,
to have a glance at these demolished pieces,
not of any machinary nor of any garbage,
these are humans, these are called humans.

mostly found everywhere,
at the corner of any street,
at the middle of any road,
asking for help and for care,
which they do not find anywhere.

my heart aches and breaks down,
when i call them,
these are humans, these are called humans.

lets come up and unit togather,
to evolve humans out of these machines,
and make them the dazzling flowers,
who flourish only and fade not,
who will feel proud and tell others,
we are humans, we are called humans.

Submitted: Friday, June 22, 2012
Edited: Saturday, June 23, 2012

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