Salvation Poem by Quaid-Uz- Zaman

with a curious look i stared at the wild - wild white duck how gently it shook off all the dirt with luminous water and how aptly made her self cleaned.
man is not the problem;
it is the misery of thought, in the curled brain, the riddles that block the way forward
hands are empty and can hold
the moons- soft and silvery,

there has always been magic unless and until unanswered
and the sky is ever expanding to the tune of our dreams and desires;
a pulsar lost or did never exist but there is enough space for the red red blood and an enormous blue
for the restless and
jittering heart.