Abdul Wahab People Poems

How nice was to see the love of the pigeon!
How tasty was the fruits of every season!

Now the nature is not fresh but full of poison
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You may heard of a bird that resides in your heart
Its colour is blue to some, red is to few
But grey to maximum that goes out and in without your control
Its name is unknown to some one
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I stop telling people
I write
And i am a poet
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The same man the same mouth
On the same and identical situation
When produces different words
For different men of different places
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Why do people play with blood when it gives no pleasure and only pain?
Why do people wag a war when it gives only losses and no gain?
Why do people play with mud when it never tones up but tarnishes their images?
Why do people play the blame -game when it never solves the problem but increases?
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