Month: April 2010

Sands Of Time

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Sometimes we watch the sands of time trickle down the hourglass of our lives. Twenty four hours are not enough anymore as we try to fit in everything that we want to do; work, play, spend quality time with our friends and families or simply drink tea on the veranda as we watch the shifting colors of the sky during sunset.

Time is an evasive prey. The harder we try to capture it, the faster it runs away from us, but the thing with time is that it only moves forward, and never moves backwards. Every heart beat, every breath, every clock hand’s tick tock, sends us a message….

The same message…

Time is running and we’re all headed in the same direction.

Hold the hand of a dear one, and tell them you love them.

Smile at a person who’s done you good and tell them thank you.

Call an estranged family member or friend and check up on them, for you never know…

Because if you don’t do it now, you might never do.

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Wahed Nafar

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Wahed Nafar walks across a barren land
The sun beats hard on its thirsty sand
Sweat beads on his face, sarung in hand
Where is he walking to? I don’t understand

One block at a time, he keeps on building,
It’s scorching hot, he’ll rest when it’s fifty,
Since it’s forty nine point five, he keeps on building,
One word draws a snort from his chest; “Safety”

Spears poke the clouds, attracting lightning,
Media cameras, loud cheers and applause,
A city finally on the map, in excess lighting,
He watches, then crawls to his den, after a pause

Wahed Nafar likes to eat keema paratha
He plays cricket with his friends every Friday
Then tells them to snap a shot of him next to a car not his
So his family won’t worry; the camera’s also not his.

If I ask him, what brings you here? What will he tell?
His children in private schools over a hill?
With five houses, forty relatives are doing well?
Or is he doing all this for his wife, his dil?

What if he was faring much better back home?
But they lured him with promises of striking gold?
Now his passport is buried somewhere in the dust
With nobody to help, and not a single soul to trust,
He tries to get himself deported; making random calls
And stalking women hoping to start some brawls

Wahed Nafar walks across a barren land
The sun beats hard on its thirsty sand,
Sweat beads on his face, sarung in hand
Where did he come from? I still don’t understand

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