Shariq Babar

Shariq Babar

The author is currently working as a content marketer in Toronto, Canada. He has a strong interest in creative writing and film making. He tweets @shariqbabar

September 1, 2019
TOPICS

Snows of good intentions

There is a cross on the ground I walk, There is a cross in this snow. There are footsteps of God knows who, Tire tracks of Old Chevy Malibu’s. There’s a horizon I can’t really see, Except for what the headlights show. There are moody storms with patches of snow, But it just always seems there’s more and more and more — snow. There is blood in the snow and it shines bright and red, There are people who walk past me, behind me, In front of me — but no one notices. There is a cross on the ground, There is a cross in this snow, There is a trail of ...

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The anvil of the East

In the cold hard stare of those shanty towns, You hear the busy bikes bustling around, You hear the hearty children humming to the sounds, You see the posh Prado that does not belong, You see the glock pointed, “Sir, go along”. You might even hear screams, Hair pulling, a lover’s affair, Shoes flying, such a disgrace, beware! You see the sewage water going down the drain, You see brown earth, roads nowhere in sight. You see the cows mooing with anorexic bodies, You see the baby wiggling its nose to escape the flies, You see the boys laughing in their four-inch paradise, You see the rest dying, day and night. You see ...

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The cognisant state

Through the looking glass Narcissus explores, All the workings of one’s own soul, A world enamoured with ruby, sapphire and gold. The eternal wound of the first broken soul, The tale of horses, sons, women and gold. A day without forgiveness, For the farmer’s daughter, A day without compassion, For the butchers son, All in the name of me, I and myself. Alas! Allah! Please forgive me. Until twelve past four. In the shadow of the patriarch, They cry for redemption, They cry for remorse, Justify the common sin, Oh Lord! The times clutch our soul! His eyes perceptively blinded, Until twelve past four. Such is he cursed with his dark materials, Immortalisation so easily shunned, From the hearts of ...

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Green Town

Where the church bells don’t ring, Where the billboards don’t shine, Where there are no street walkers, Or hints of the divine. Green Town, Green Town, Green Town. The mosques are out of order, The synagogues flooded to the brim. Where the clothes have no glitter, And the bracelets no gold. Green Town, Green Town, Green Town. Where the karma is tipped, Where the shore is no more. Where the sex has no pleasure, No guilt or no pain. Where the people are selfish, So utterly vain. Green Town, Green Town, Green Town. Where the sky is shining, And it’s raining too. Where the earth is so tilted, Titled to the moon. Where the ordered disorder, Is always so true. Green Town, ...

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You should expect nothing

There are days of glee and sorrow, There are days of wonder and freight, There are days of worry, insecurity — Thoughts that you’ve been victimised. There are protruding, menacing, cutting eyes, Staring. They watch your every move. It’s not some higher power or satan or big brother, It’s just all the people who expect something from you. And the days will pass you by. You will find new shores and highways. You will look beyond the roofs of Karachi, and the markets of Lahore. You will breathe in the stink of cities, leaving the Big Apple behind. You will see the world — not really, But it will be enough. They will wonder where you’ve gone, maybe they really do ...

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