Kwrites

do pal ruka khwabon ka karwan
aur phir chal diye
tum kahan hum kahan
do pal ki thi dilon ki dastaan
aur phir chal diye
tun kahan hum kahan

beautiful lyrics beautiful song and beautiful movie

just as the zuljanah wandered, lost and hopeless in search of his master
I too am lost and hopeless, in search of my God.

it’s 7th muharram and it’s the martyrdom of hazrat qasim, the son of the second imam, Hasan (as). He was supposed to get married but instead went to karbala alongside his family to fight for Islam. To commemorate him, we distribute mehndi (henna), jewelry, fruits etc as a way to honor the fact that he was about to get married. As if he were still alive, and all of Hussains followers are gathered around to celebrate the happiness of his nephew, Qasim. Nonetheless, he is alive in our hearts. It’s believed that if the mehndi of qasim is put on a woman, she is supposed to get married soon. It’s such a beautiful tradition… almost as if the shia of Ali are fulfilling Qasims last wish.

i wrote this a long time ago

to ask if you could be my God would be shirk
so could you be the light that leads the way to God?

I thought you would heal the wounds my father gave me
but why did I forget
if my father didn’t even want the extension of his own bones and blood
then why would I expect more from a stranger?

a strange restlessness drowns me when im unable to pray,
my thoughts lingering in my mind, wondering where to go,
my heart sinking in the sadness of my wounds,
and the anxiousness and emptiness of my soul,
but what’s bothering me the most is
am I restless because I can’t pray to my God
or
am I restless because I can’t pray for you?

in prostration his wealth, status, and ego
disappear and he bows down before God, a
common phenomenon we carry with respect and love. he's just like me: lost, broken and reserved, the only difference is I tell him my pain and he tells his God.
whilst making dua, his vulnerability flows
beneath him, releasing his agony and letting his guard down. he has vivid tears in his eyes,
droplets of ambivalence.
after centuries of darkness within, he
willingly lets the luminosity of His brightness in 5 times a day to remind himself there is a light, there is a goodness, and there is a God.
he cleanses his soul with purity of the supreme. ayats of the Quran sink into his mind
and soak his heart with peace. he submits to a
deity that brings him warmth and becomes his
home.
and if he finds his home with God, then
my home is with him.

I wrote this 2 years ago I believe, came across it today :)))

they asked me why I believed that in this loveless world, love exists.
so I told them the story of us
how I drowned in the depth of your soul,
and how you emerged within my veins.
-zg

Ek bashar hai mizaji khuda mera
sukoon e qalb mera
mehram o marham mera
wo kuch is tarhan se simti hai uske zaat mai
uske dharkanen hi hain ab ata pata mera...

NOT my own, written by a loved one.

Urdu poetry anyone?

I truly believe that Urdu is a language that captures the essence of any emotion. It’s the reason I’m so in love with Urdu! English is too bland at times.

you liked my eyes yet you couldn’t read them. -2:08pm

just a glimpse of what home would feel like at the wrong address
-9:34am

but where would she have gone?
home?
what home?
it was simply a four wall shelter for her.
for no home is complete without their child.

peace be upon the mother’s who lost their children in Karbala!

what damage did the horses even do if his spine was already broken?
for the weight of the horses on his ribs were no comparison to the loss of Abbas to his back.

Someone had asked if Ali was present in the court of Yazid
yet it was Zainab who spoke
that took her back to a time when someone had asked if Ali was present in the battle of
Siffeen
yet it was Abbas who fought
and she realized that
if there was any essence left in her soul
It was made up of
Ali.

there was a group of women in the imprisonment of Yazid
but what caught my eye was a little girl
so bruised.
so beaten.
so broken.
her ears were washed in blood.
her shirt was burned.
and her hands are suffocated by ropes.
but she had the most beautiful of eyes
I had seen those eyes somewhere

is this Fatima?

when she asked her aunt Zainab
where her brother Akbar was
Zainab turned towards Karbala
and Akbar’s co**se shivered.

In honor of the tragic months of Muharram and Safar, I will be sharing my “Ghareeban” (The poor) series. It’s composed of poetry about the tragedy of Karbala and the vile nights of Shaam.

Inshallah next year, I’ll share certain poems according to date. However, for now since chelum is in the near future, I’ll share it as a remembrance of Ashura.

ya Hussain.

poetry is pouring pain on a paper to make something perfect.
- kwrites

writing has always been a talent of mine ever since I was a kid, but poetry has been a passion ever since I experienced pain.

poetry was one of my escapes for me. It allowed me to express myself and channel all my negative energy in a healthy way. It’s also something that can be interpreted in whatever way an audience wants (depending on its perspective of course) which is why I’m publicizing it.

I hope my writing can lighten your burden or share a space in your heart :))

lots of love,
kwrites