Libre Magazine

A Writer

Staring at empty pages of his journal

Is Thinking

.

I, whose feet only trod the nights,

Until today,

Have only been looking for characters

For the stories I write

In those silent sleepless nights

On those melancholic paths I always took

.

Until today, everything

Rain, Fragrance, Wind, Sounds

Everything was just imagination

Every dream was only to carve a new character for my stories

.

That writer

Surrounded by characters he himself created

Is thinking

.

The rain that fell today

It felt as if it really drizzled on my face

I think I saw her today

.

That distant memory of her name

Just went past me

Filling me with a silent sensation

It felt as if her smile really touched me

It felt as if she stayed in my eyes for a few short moments

.

That’s why

I have dreams in my eyes

That’s why

It feels as if she is just a dream

.

That writer

Holding a new idea in his heart along with a remorse

Is thinking

.

Here comes yet another story

The End

Poet’s Note: The poem was originally written in Urdu language; it is roughly translated in English and might have lost its effect, if any. Apologies for that.