Posts by Abdul Fatir

Life Is A Railway Track

Life is a railway track. There’re trains moving swiftly, And trains moving sluggishly. On what seems to be An unending journey. Uncertain— Though the rails appear To meet near the horizon. But will they meet?   There’re platforms for stopping And reconsidering, But it’s all about moving. If you stop for too long, You’ll become one of the Goods trains, discarded. Standing on derelict tracks, Converting iron into its oxides.


(This poem is a tribute to Sir Alan Rickman)   I’ve been given this book Which seems not to end, No matter how many nights I spend. If I’m supposed to read it or write, I’m not very sure. I think, I should’ve asked this before.   There are lines in permanent ink, Then there are blanks for me, To fill with episodes of sorrow and glee. When will the

Never And Always

<script async src=”//“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> “I will never leave you.” “I will always be there.” Always and Never, Have lost their meaning, Or maybe that’s what They were always meant for. To give false hope, To build relationships upon lies, And fake promises. <script async src=”//“></script> <!– taw_display2


<script async src=”//“></script> <!– taw-responsive –> <ins class=”adsbygoogle”      style=”display:block”      data-ad-client=”ca-pub-3446446293618986″      data-ad-slot=”1428227755“      data-ad-format=”auto”></ins> <script> (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); </script> I had some dreams Which I moulded Into little toys. They were damp and needed warmth. There’s a window in my home Which gets ample sunlight. I kept my toys on the window sill To let them bask, and be tough. There was

Solace For All

When the night descends, Descends over the luminous city. The city plunges deep, Deep into the dungeons of slumber. Of slumber which hides, Hides beneath the dismal eyes. Eyes which have lost their luster, seeking, Seeking that rebellious solace, Solace which is not meant for them. Of luster lost, Lost to the yearning for the beloved. Beloved who’ll never reciprocate. Lost to the longing for a morsel. Lost from the

Lights Out!

I have to ask the hawk Who fell from its Lofty flight. If it was able To fly, again. If it was able To flap its wings In the very wind Which reeked of— Betrayal. I have to ask the curtain Which bore the abuses And slander. If it was able To open itself, again. I have to ask men If my verses Were ever heard. If they ever gave