Too weak to stand before the mighty ones,
Too poor to stand before the rich persons,
I had no alternate but to bow down here,
It's a mosque filled with helpless humans.
I am an orphan grown up in a religious institution,
I learnt here Holy Quran and preserved it in my heart,
I am thinking, shall anyone send a dish tonight for us?
Wish I would get a hot bed and a wooden cot.
Or after offering night prayers I shall drink a glass of water,
And sleep on a jute mattress torn out at places, what's my guilt?
A failed attempt to prevent from the coldness of the floor,
I do not dream as the nightmares don't give way to it.
During my thinking I continue reciting the Holy Book,
And I never commit errors in reciting any of its verse,
While reciting Quran I think of a better life,
My belief is never affected though my condition is adverse.
And what are my nightmares someone from the rival sect,
Or the agents of an enemy country, fighters of a proxy war,
A blast and more than thousand students are killed,
My faith shivers, why God didn't save them? Is God too far?
Whom should I call for food, safety and a hot bed?
Alas! I can just cry and call God, who has written my fate,
A verse at that I am required to put my forehead on the earth,
Immediately forgetting my confusions I put it, God has no alternate.
(I was deeply grieved on a bomb blast at religious Madrasah in that more than thousand students were killed at Dir, Peshawar)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem