As I try to go deeper within my being these questions, constantly, rattle my mind. . .
Why is it me who has to bear this torment?
Why is it me who has to bear the heat of the sun?
Why is it me who has to burn in an inferno every now and then?
Why is it me who has to feel guilty till She dies?
Why is it me who keeps thinkin' about if, but and whys?
Why is it me who has to feel guilty for murdering the virtues of an angel, every now an then?
Why is it me who doesn't know where she has reached and when?
Why is it me from whose sails fate has taken the wind out?
Why is it me whose dignity and credibility is in doubt?
Why is it me who is completely torn?
Why is it me who curses herself for being born?
Why is it who stands most alone even in the midst of a crowd?
Why is it me whose misery has been cloaked in a secret shroud?
Why is it me who is haunted by the clamour of her own silence?
Why is it me who wants to find solace in numbness to escape from grief in every sense?
Why is it me who has to cry herself into a lullaby to sleep?
Why is it me who can not have peace, forever to keep?
Why is it me who has imprisoned herself within the walls of agony?
Why is it me for whom world has no mercy?
Why is it me who is dead without being dead?
Why is it me who has only grief to wed?
Why is it me who is lost and bound in pain?
Why is it me whose every struggle is in vain?
Why is it me whose forehead has been chiseled with the wrinkles of anxiety?
Why is it me whose misery is so mighty?
Why is it me. . . ?
Why. . . ?
Poetry by Mirza Nazrana Bég
Read 682 times
Written on 2010-02-25 at 14:26
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Why. . ?
Why is it me who has to die every moment?Why is it me who has to bear this torment?
Why is it me who has to bear the heat of the sun?
Why is it me who has to burn in an inferno every now and then?
Why is it me who has to feel guilty till She dies?
Why is it me who keeps thinkin' about if, but and whys?
Why is it me who has to feel guilty for murdering the virtues of an angel, every now an then?
Why is it me who doesn't know where she has reached and when?
Why is it me from whose sails fate has taken the wind out?
Why is it me whose dignity and credibility is in doubt?
Why is it me who is completely torn?
Why is it me who curses herself for being born?
Why is it who stands most alone even in the midst of a crowd?
Why is it me whose misery has been cloaked in a secret shroud?
Why is it me who is haunted by the clamour of her own silence?
Why is it me who wants to find solace in numbness to escape from grief in every sense?
Why is it me who has to cry herself into a lullaby to sleep?
Why is it me who can not have peace, forever to keep?
Why is it me who has imprisoned herself within the walls of agony?
Why is it me for whom world has no mercy?
Why is it me who is dead without being dead?
Why is it me who has only grief to wed?
Why is it me who is lost and bound in pain?
Why is it me whose every struggle is in vain?
Why is it me whose forehead has been chiseled with the wrinkles of anxiety?
Why is it me whose misery is so mighty?
Why is it me. . . ?
Why. . . ?
Poetry by Mirza Nazrana Bég
Read 682 times
Written on 2010-02-25 at 14:26
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
