Clock hands
When the clock hands stuck
The similar hours on dial
My skin grows feverish
The vision goes blurred
The breath gets tattered
The similar hours on dial
My skin grows feverish
The vision goes blurred
The breath gets tattered
And then
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ڈر لگتا ہے
اس قدر خاموشی ہے ،ڈر لگتا ہے من میں سوۓ شور سے ڈر لگتا ہے تیرے آ کر پھر جانے کا وہ جاں کن لمحہ تیرے آ کر پھر جانے سے ڈر لگتا ہے رت جگوں کے رنگ ہیں پھیلے آنکھوں میں خشک آنکھوں کے در کھلنے سے ڈر لگتا ہے وہ جو ہونے اور نہ ہونے کے درمیان ہے شہر میں پھیلی ایسی وبا سے ڈر لگتا ہے ڈاکٹرنازش امین
Mustansar Hussain Tarar . (A gesture of gratitude on 75th birthday)
I had to rush. Time was rushing too. It was a lovely February morning in Karachi, Pakistan. The smooth chilled breeze at the sea shore was refreshing to the core. The lush green lawn of this elegant hotel located by the sea was filled with people of diversification. I reached at the edge of the small flight of stairs that was leading to the vast expense of lawn. Sheema kirmani was performing on the stage and the echoes of the shadow were visible on the larger than life screen. I looked for him. But that was absurd. It was impossible to find anyone in this crowd. So I decided the next best thing. I moved towards the hall specified for his session. Room 007. There wasn't anyone there yet except for a cute couple (later found out to be his dedicated fans and my newly acquired friends). I selected the best seat with the best view of the stage. And silently, began waiting. Slowly the crowd moved in and the hall was full in no time. My pulse ran higher and I began to have palpitations
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