nature is bursting at its seams
its march but not favorable enough
it is never enough
to be almost happy
almost there
somewhere where you
and i can sit in the quietness
of an amaltaas or
a bougainvillea resting
leaning in on a tree
as if whispering its secrets to her~

the city is bursting at its seams
nauseous air that chokes the lungs
(flowers don’t grow)
cars spitting out motorcyclists
unhappily going their way
people invading each other,
exploding silence into diminutive fragments
and we drive over them~

one can inhale the desi ghee
melt on a tawa
chatter of women rolling out dough
and the tarka sizzle over daal
the moazzan calls for the evening prayer
the horizon melts in a distance
and families come together for meal~

the battle between human restlessness
and serenity cross each other
as the day sinks into the night
restless eyes wait on footpaths
scratching wasted lives~

the city will burst at its seams
and waste itself out
it knows the secret of waste
it will rebuild itself over
the bones of apathy
and reign till avarice breathes 

…

Diya is from lahore. loves old trees, words and surreal nights~