Those who stand still

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It’s like the smell of old pages of a classic novel
I open my room window through which memories of past seem to return
there’s suffocation inside and out, no difference
and I feel as if I’m still broken and shattered
as if I’m a living character in a tale of woe

Here’s my place, the construction in which I live
I lay, I walk, I roam around and make sense to none
but those trees across the window
Those who stand still
at their places are never alone
the wind, butterflies and birds come, talk and share things with them
while for me; the apparently only living being
no one seems to come to me, to accompany me
except for the passing time and that too moving away from me

It’s like the feelings you get as you see some old picture of yours
bringing the questions in mind as to why
life turned in such an unfavorable direction, why things and people had to change

Here’s my bed, the wood over which I sleep, I cry, I weep
I feel many times as if I died
but those trees across the window
Those who stand still
at their places are never alone
the rain, sunshine and the clouds all seem to be there for them
and I’m always invisible to the world
no one seems to come to me, to accompany me
except for the passing time and that too moving away from me

Written by Muhammad Wasif Haq (2007)
Karachi, Pakistan
The page is a part of Cool Bluez

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