our land has waged a war against God

mothers in our land name their children after things theyve lost. things they cant have unless they name their children after them. Hayat. Mashaal. Qandeel.

Hayaat is for life itself. existence. to a mothers life. a life to a mothers life. Hayaat. a prayer to live longer. for a son. a hope to stay forever. for a son. a word that feels eternity. but our mothers somehow forget that life is always haunted by death. that every hope is bound to crumble. that every word is merely a languages way of showing off. that their sons even if named Hayaat wont live longer here.

Mashaal is for light. radiating from the dark corners. illuminating the darkest corners. of a mothers life. of a land that is so enwrapped in gloom. light that transcends the murk seated on thrones for long. but our mothers forget that light if its in abundance causes blindness to those who are so comfortable with darkness. that a Mashaal is destined to only fade on our nameless streets.

Qandeel is for lantern. a thing inclosing a light. defying the darkness. shunning away everything that comes in its way. thats what our mothers want their daughters to be. Qandeel. but they somehow forget that it needs to be protected. always. like their daughters. from winds blowing against them. from merciless rains showering above them. from whatever comes to their way. that a Qandeel if remains unprotected… withers away.

our land has waged a war on our mothers. for it neither let live Hayaat nor Mashaal nor Qandeel. it keeps eating away their children like a bloodsucking monster. once a child of separation has grown into a sterile monster. that doesnt let our mothers will to stay alive intact.

bakhtawar says God doesnt live in battlefields. that he doesnt live here anymore.

our land has waged a war on itself. for it doesnt let even God stay here. it doesnt make room for him to stay. it doesnt give him a reason to stay. it doesnt feel his absence. it doesnt fear his wrath.

our land has waged a war against God.



forsaken dreams

every forsaken dream becomes a poem. on stroll. searching for home.

back at home

our daughters weave words together


a silhouette of poem emerges from the corner


words remain silent

like our daughters.

who weave words together.

back at home.