It’s Not A Love Story Poem by Akhtar Jawad

Yes, It’s not a love story,
It’s story of two Pakistanis,
Sharing their pains on The Face Book,
A great website of social contacts,
Bringing a girl in her early twenties,
An emotional and sentimental poetess,
And a seventy tear old poet,
So close,
As if they are in front of each other!
They have never met,
For the poet the poetess is still a mystery,
Is she really a girl of twenty?
Or she is a grown up lady,
Who has disguised herself for certain reasons,
The poet does not know her pains,
But he believes she has some pains,
That constrains her to awake in the nights,
Probably she is a Eurasian,
Her father is a Pakistani Muslim,
And her mother is a British woman,
But nothing is definite,
I told you she is still a mystery!
She says she knows seven languages,
But she is not proficient in Urdu,
The national language of Pakistan,
For every Urdu poem,
She requests to translate it in English!
The poet a middle class old grandfather,
Has been a romantic youth,
Lucky or unlucky,
That his first love affair,
Was materialized in marriage,
His wife is a beautiful, loyal and helpful lady,
His son and a daughter are out of the country,
The eldest daughter lives in Karachi.
The poet lives with his grandson and granddaughters,
The area in that he lives in particular,
And Pakistan in general,
Is facing an energy crisis,
And problem of scarcity of water,
Where terror and religious extremism,
Has put human flush and blood,
On the mercy of so called true Muslims,
Where children are attacked and killed in schools,
Where Mosques and Churches are attacked,
Where women are burnt alive on the charge of a sin,
Where leaders are corrupt,
Where constitution is broken again and again,
Where democracy is the government of hoodlums,
By hook and for fools!

The poet loves his country,
He is an Indian immigrant,
But he was told, sea is before you,
Right to say,
We have to live and die now in Pakistan,
So what if a terrorist kills the poet!
He lived for Pakistan,
He will die for Pakistan.

Let me come back to my story now,
That is not a love story,
The water is supplied on alternate days,
The supply starts at mid night,
The poet has to awake on every alternate day,
To beg water from the main line,
Through a sucking pump,
If beloved of corrupt rulers,
I mean electric supply,
Allows him to do so,
He has to check the underground tank,
On regular intervals,
If it overflows,
The road becomes a canal,
And his loving neighbors,
Start abusing the poet,
What are the abuses?
I cannot write.
On every alternate early mornings,
The poet awakes and passes his time,
Either on poemhunter.com,
Or on the Face Book,
He was introduced to the poetess,
A young princess,
A sweet little fairy,
A rose bud yet to blossom,
Beautiful and smart,
Having nice control on English,
Capable of describing her lovely sentiments,
And deep feelings,
In impressive and heart touching poems,
They exchanged their poems,
And the pleasantries,
Gradually she became an inspiration for the poet,
And the poet wrote many poems on her,
This relationship that is nameless,
Has grown to the extent,
That the poet described himself,
As a shadow of Wordsworth,
And described the poetess,
As a shadow of Lucy,
Lucy was mere chit of a girl,
And Wordsworth wrote many poems on her death,
The poet knows neither he is Wordsworth,
Nor she is Lucy,
No harm in dreaming!
May God bless this Lucy a happy long life!
Yes, he loves her!
Still he says, it’s not a love story!