The memories of everyone I loved,
linger in my backyard.
An old book opened again,
and I still wait for them everyday
The large pillars of my house,
made of sorrow passed down,
from the dead people and so,
keeps the roof of rage stable.
Where do I keep it all?
Every place is occupied by cold solitude,
and I stand in the hallway lined with,
all these untold stories.
Hands that were supposed to be warm,
are no longer here the coldness is deadly,
and the solitude even more.
Hamza Ali Inter-I (Pre. Engineering)
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