Runaway love

Runaway love

Runaway Love

Runaway Love

curving on the street’s end ,in the footpath’s bend
the lil kid is so cold and none’s around to lend
his feet all swollen , his eyes so blank
the fate of life written on his own hands
he tries to figure out y all’s so black
y everyone’s so mean and want to sack
y a world of dumbs is all he can find
y is everyone so harsh and not so kind
starin at the dirty walls in the back-street
he tries to find stars in his hand’s streaks
but all he finds are the scratches that burn
ashes from the past with memories so stern
memories of a mom who died without medicine
of a dad always drunk who never called him son
and as tears roll down his beautiful cheeks
death pities him and he’s so weak
opening the cold arms ,it embraces him
only to let him drown in a calm ,happy sleep


The struggle for existence

The struggle for existence

The struggle for existence

The struggle for existence , My Poems , Some Heart Touching Words , A heart Touching Poem

In the dangling electric-supply wires

and the dim, corroded lamp

perched atop the telephone pole

with its pallor barely touching the ground;

And the swirling snakes of water

which slip down the chipped red-brick slopes

and are arrested suddenly by the coal-tar road;

And the lid-less, gaping gutter-holes

vomiting frequent throngs of roaches

who tread the scarce grass blades

bordering the moist leaks in the ground;

And the foul smell that glides across the land ‘ere

tugging at the rugged walls and dingy buildings

sneaking under the ugly gates

and into the oppressive, nearly non-existent verandas;

And in the endless din of useless discussions

gossip and grocery talk

earnest commitments

of saving a penny here, a dime there

only to eventually indulge in one last extravaganza;

In this do I find beauty

a beauty that mesmerises

with the verity of its naked truth

its bare bones, starched of the drapes and false apparels

fleshless bones of a bony vulture

that stands true to the what begets it

and feeds upon it, ravenously

the struggle for existence

Fickle hopes

Fickle hopes

My lyrics dismantle
On the work-desk
Against the clock’s tick-tock
The pen frisking
Across the bare paper
The lantern hanging low
And a ghastly pallor
Pouring silent gloom
Dissolving into my mind
The cracking glass-panes
Under the times’ banes
Sounds of you
Still in that air
Me still there
Upon that chair
Still collecting shards
Of my broken dreams
Still searching past
In the cold

‘The Toil’ An Heart Touching Poem

The orange spills upon the eastward canvas

And a pale white shades the night’s mantle

The wind’s worn of a cold glide

And shudders anew on the gold pastel

The trees, still bowed in the night-full stupor

Sway with the gentle, caressing breeze

The mighty orb gains the reign

And hither shall the dark’s rule cease

The thin haze in the air, lowly drifting

Dissolves and the virgin dew trickle shy

Downwards, into deeper folds

Up the welkin’s a crystal blue ball

Washed anew in the mighty glory

And in its bosom, few tufts of fluff

Promise the day thin shades ahead

And as the day lives on, vivified and stark now

Life shrugs off many a faces

And toils yet again for the thread of breaths

*Salman Altaf*

Published originally in Us magazine, The News on May 7, 2010

The Child

Poem ‘The Child’

A December night
pale light stole through
and amidst this
I walked down the cold street
the fog setting in the scene
the fingers numb and aching
I slid into my pocket
reached for the packet
and lighted a cigarette
“don’t do that uncle!!”
I was amazed at the whisper
thought it was wind
or perhaps a leave’s rustling
“please don’t !!”
the weak voice was louder this time
and as I tried to look through the cold
and the fog
I realized a mass
mass of tattered clothes and bare skin
pressed under a big basket
placed upon his head
moving slowly on and on
I looked at the face
which betrayed the hint of being once-handsome
a hint of being once-pretty
just like all others kids
but then cruelly and forcefully
turned into an adult’s face
the skin losing all the tenderness
taut and dry
yet the eyes –
the eyes shimmering with a retained innocence
glowing of some unknown passion
I put off my cigarette
bent down
and pulled his cheeks
cold as death they were
and they did run shivers down my spine
“why.. what brings you out son??”
I asked him
“on such a cold night”
“nothing but the search for bread”
he replied with simplicity
though i could see something
perhaps tears
glimmering tintly in his eyes
as his breathes dissolved into thin air
I bought off all the boiled eggs
took off the coat which burnt my skin now
and let it hide my conscience
and his bare skin
his face shone with an angelic glow
and as his pale lips moved again
I heard him say
thank you uncle
and his lips curved into a smile
It seemed heavens have dawned angels onto earth
I kissed his forehead
pulled his cheeks again
and I felt the warmth of life resuming into them
I heard a faint melody
as his footsteps fainted into the fog
and this once
I didn’t call it a whisper of wind
neither the whoosh of a tree
but the singing of my heart !!

Salman Altaf

Born To Die

Born To Die

Born To Die

The seconds pelt our paths as we inch towards the fall. The hour hands sound horridly harsh when the wind picks up the rustle of our steps on brown, bronzed leaves. And the hands clasped together, moist with dense anticipation, shudder ever so slightly. The clocks slow down, until they come to a stop the exact moment when moon melts down from the sky and onto our skins. And we ravenously treat ourselves, closer still, mocking time and jesting at fate. The euphoria rises atop tall tree-tops and ascends towards the heavens where it shines from the stars and urges us on. We lose the measure of our steps or the time left. And just when the fall comes, we willingly take the leap, vividly conscious of our beings, through each other. The fall no longer seems daunting.

The Rain



The Rain Salman Altaf

The Rain … The Beauty Of nature 🙂

As the meek shower started, I stood there under the sky, letting it drench me – sooner, however, it was torrential drench breaking down in squalls. The wind, that typical monsoon wind mingled with Multan’s gypsy-lusted violent currents of air – it melted down to a melodious symphony, flapping softly at my shirt as I stood contemplating the intoxicating mud-scent. Away, far away, up in the zenith, the whites were giving way to greys, shaded fluffs in placid exaltations, rising in ridges and cliffs, conquering the welkin’s canvas. I felt homely – in there, in those pleasantly damp moments, amid the rustling winds, I could relate. Those slanting angels the rain-drops made, the snakes twirling on windows and the enchanting music of them tapping all over – it was something out of this world, as it always have been.

In a few moments, perhaps hours, for I wouldn’t know, such was my exalted stupor, the whites were re-emerging from ‘neath a shade dense. The rain grew thin once again to a meek shower and then stopped. The wind rustled, celebrating the occasion – and an occasion it was, a rare one, of a solitary meditation of the spirit.

I opened my eyes, cleared the drops now trickling down my face and smiled – I was content with my fair share.