Ras Siddiqui September 30, 1998
Tags: Karachi
Dedicated to the memory of Mir Murtaza Bhutto, a once talented human being who took the path of violence which never really forgave him. He was killed outside his house 2 years ago.
Sounds follow the running footsteps of boy-men
As an internal fury explodes coloring their forgotten dreams
All over the streets is the crimson graffiti of their quest
Uniforms collect to cover the now nameless dead
Faceless in the calm breeze of the
Karachi nights
As the local help makes chappaties for dinner tonight
And young wives and children wait, but the waiting will be long
Because forever is the one word only the departed express
While they mix tears with their tea in Lyari as we speak
Another avenue of hope left them with much unsaid
Like his father he went without really compromising much
As the Almighty only knows why they find their death
At the hands of people in Khaki who don't care to speak
Of the numerous hidden reasons that make them act
As if they never knew or were never related to us and
From which one can only conclude that this multiplying hate
Is still destroying the very fabric of the society that once was home
Where love nurtured many of us, the cherished days of our youth
When a tall youth walked the grounds of Grammar School
And did not yet carry the immense burden of his tragic legacy.
· Lyari is an impoverished part of Karachi where the Bhutto’s still have a following.
As an internal fury explodes coloring their forgotten dreams
All over the streets is the crimson graffiti of their quest
Uniforms collect to cover the now nameless dead
Faceless in the calm breeze of the
As the local help makes chappaties for dinner tonight
And young wives and children wait, but the waiting will be long
Because forever is the one word only the departed express
While they mix tears with their tea in Lyari as we speak
Another avenue of hope left them with much unsaid
Like his father he went without really compromising much
As the Almighty only knows why they find their death
At the hands of people in Khaki who don't care to speak
Of the numerous hidden reasons that make them act
As if they never knew or were never related to us and
From which one can only conclude that this multiplying hate
Is still destroying the very fabric of the society that once was home
Where love nurtured many of us, the cherished days of our youth
When a tall youth walked the grounds of Grammar School
And did not yet carry the immense burden of his tragic legacy.
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