Poems by Farauq Malik


a poem by

Farauq Malik

I can hear the sound of flute out there,
But slowly it is pouring from everywhere

Is it real or just my madness?
In my tormented city I only hear sadness

I ran here, I ran there, and I ran everywhere,
But I know the melody was coming from somewhere

I asked not one, nor two, but many
However, my eagerness to them was uncanny

How I can hear, when others can’t, I asked myself,
The conflict continued, till I asked Himself

He said the melody is within,
To my dismay, I rejected His words therein

I kept on running from one lane to another,
Until I was asked about the melody by a beggar

How did he know, I asked the beggar
He replied, he had seen many like me in despair

To end my pain, he said to look inside
Since the cure is not outside

Few moments with within
Calmed down everything

Now I can hear the melody clearer and louder
I thanked my new mentor, the beggar

With the next blink, I couldn’t see him anymore
Was he beggar or He, the question perplexed me more

Far in the sky I can see somebody holding a flute,
Asking me to play a duet

His clothes were torn and hands were dirty,
Who are you, I enquired quickly

You are I, and I am you,
I am within and around you

He said you would hear the melody all your life
Every day with few moments of sacrifice

Those moments need no prayer, or chanting
Remembering Him is a melody everlasting

That dusk was the end of my life in grudge and shamble
From then on, I forgot to go any church or temple

I thanked Him for the melody and the sunshine
And, He promised to play it all the time

I ask myself: Why are there a few who enjoy the harvest to the full,
And the many who bend their spines are left with only a handful?

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I am a toiler

a poem by

Farauq Malik

From sunrise to sunset, I toil everyday,
They take away the wheat, I am left with the hay!

Once I took some hay to feed my cow,
They cut my wage, I wonder why and how!

You are a toiler, my father said to me,
Yes, I said, I will toil everyday, Wheat for them, hay for me!

I ask myself: Why are there a few who enjoy the harvest to the full,
And the many who bend their spines are left with only a handful?

At the day’s end, when I look upon the red sun,
My father says to me: Learn to be a toiler, my son,
And bury your ambition, if you have one!

Yes, I am toiler, and I want my rightful pay,
Do I give my sweat and blood only for hay?

I don’t mind bending my spine,
Besides hay, I want my honour and dime!

Who are they? A few pretending to be our gods and the only ones,
But how come our gods keep passing robes from fathers to sons?

Father, I have to go,
I just can’t take it any more!

I heard there is a town,
Where not only a toiler is held equal, but also a clown!

Mother, allow me to stay away from your bosom,
I know I will be alone,
May be life will have a chance to blossom!

Pack my bag with some old clothes, food and water,
The journey is long, and severe is the weather!

My friends, hold your tears till I return from the city of shine,
We will banish them with good food and wine!

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