Poems by Huzaifa Zoeb

To God

a poem by

Huzaifa Zoeb

I plead you to look into this:
You created me a perfect soul
Now I am cast in a different mould
What you intended and what I am
Perhaps you love me ‘as is where is.’

I long to break the shackles of security
And romp into your wide vast world
What stops me I do not know
It’s simple to say but not easy to go.

To work is not to suffer,
but to work without love.
All the hearts that are lonely
Are wanting in that only.

The mosques, churches and temples
Call people towards them
To find relief from the burden
Or to rise above existence.

People expect from each other
And duty asks to perform
But the inner voice that is restless
Asks you to move on.

You made life in two forms
One a source of solace to the other
You also made some between the two:
For them no peace was written by You.

The one who wears enough of armour
And the other who is open to arrows of doubt:
The first one’s armour rebounds the wrong
The second must everytime think and be strong.

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Intensity

a poem by

Huzaifa Zoeb

From down in the pit, people bounce back
To survive;
Ships come on even keel, after veering
Wildly in the storm;
After a moonless rainy night, the sun
Rises pink and there is light.
Everything comes what one fervently wants-
If without that, life cannot be.

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Mean Dream

a poem by

Huzaifa Zoeb

In a dream
I was walking down the busy road
When there was a commotion
And someone shouted:”Thief! Thief!”

Three men grappled with one another
And a rucksack.
They went round-about pulling at
the sack between them.
One was surely the victim
One was surely the thief
The third one looked like he was
the thief’s accomplice; but he
also joined the victim and
started hitting the thief.
Could the thieves have arranged
it this way? That one actually
robs, and the other catches him?
And the reason to do this? I don’t know.
They had hit the thief black
and blue and he lay dirty,
unwashed, clothes in tatters by
the side of the pavement.
The victim now turned out the
contents of the rucksack onto
the pavement. Crockery, plates,
bowls tumbled out without breaking.
‘I was worried about this,’ he
said finally and held a purse containing
a thousand rupees triumphantly.
He pulled out two notes and threw them
on the injured thief lying there. Why?
He did it instinctively, without thinking.
I remembered then I had to go shopping;
someone waited for me in the brightly-lit
shop across the road.
I woke up to realise the dream
was true to my mental state.
But its meaning, if it had one,
eluded me.

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