She is the girl who doesn’t read poetry, 

Only hums with tears of anguish and pain, 

Lingering over everything for far too long. 

Nisar Banbhan, a seasoned poet and writer, based in Karachi, the capital city of Sindh shares his poetry    

Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.

The Girl Who Doesn’t Read Poetry

She is the girl who doesn’t read poetry, 

Only hums with tears of anguish and pain, 

Lingering over everything for far too long. 

It seems her eyes hold a search, 

And this quest has inspired me to write verses for her. 

She believes darkness will always dwell in her eyes, 

And many dreams—dreams unattainable, 

They endlessly traverse in her gaze, she’s certain, 

Dreams whose realities have yet to be penned, 

And perhaps never will the interpretations be born! 

In her dreams, love is nowhere to be found; 

A long road of separation stretches like a milestone, 

This she understands with solemnity. 

In her dreams, she walks alone, 

Miles of solitude beside herself, 

But before an unknown door appears, 

She stumbles and falls into her own dreams! 

She feels someone lifting her, offering support, 

Yet in a moment, she dispels this illusion, 

Gripping the walls, she attempts to rise, 

Her fingers become wounded, 

Like her spirit, like her existence, 

Like the depths of her eyes and heart…! 

She begins to cry, a multitude of moments, nights, and days within herself! 

In her dreams, darkness lingers still, 

Sometimes it feels as though her dreams are aflame! 

No one can see her tears…not even she! 

For she knows nothing of the hues of sorrow! 

Yet that girl hums a few special poems, 

As if reciting verses in solitude! 

It feels to her as if she has traversed those lines, 

The verses she has never read, only heard, 

And as she walks, she hums along that long road of age! 

Today, that girl has left memories behind 

And has become my poems.

***

Nostalgia

Time travels all around, 

To the left, to the right, forward and back, 

This time is but a shadow of existence, isn’t it? 

Sometimes it walks ahead while glancing back, 

Other times it moves backward, gazing ahead. 

Now I consider it my very being, 

Woven from the threads of moments by time’s fingers, 

And I lay it before you, asking you to see it 

With the eyes of your heart, 

In which you will perceive the wool of torment. 

You will see how, last night, at my heart’s door, 

The shock of an event knocked with great intensity. 

Moments lay sprawled like a bed for me, 

And I don’t know why, in panic, I rose up, 

Holding on to thoughts, 

And after sipping two gulps of consolation, I said, perhaps it was a dream, 

Just a dream; I’ll shake off all the scenes and sleep again. 

Then a thought struck, its pain like sugar in my mouth, 

Why not paint the picture of that dream first? 

Thus, barefoot, I set out to find a pen and paper, 

Like a guest in my own room. 

My hands trembled when I grasped the pen, 

As I placed the nib on the paper, it screamed, 

Like it was in agony. 

No words dripped from it; my pen had become barren, 

So, from that anguish, I wrapped myself in another layer of pain. 

Just a silent mark was etched on the paper, 

With questions swirling in its eyes, 

And I stared at it, searching for answers. 

But like a beggar’s pocket, my mind and heart were empty, 

Just like the pen. 

For a moment, we gazed at each other, as if introducing ourselves, 

A wounded smile blossomed on the lips of the figure, 

And then the words began to speak, 

Like a mute telling its tale in its own voice. 

How much do you know of pain and torment, 

O! You who call yourself a poet? 

I shape pain into verses, I replied to it. 

But do you even know what this torment is? 

First, understand it, then 

Weave the pain into your hollow words. 

Last night, a twelve-year-old girl next door was shot dead, 

And I, who wander as a metaphor for pain, 

Had fallen asleep after writing some poems, 

Having sold my soul.