I belong from a forgotten land of Pakistan.Kinza Fatima
I grew up in a place of “never-seen-before” wonders,
I grew up among people who are fairer than the fairest and darker than the darkest. Dwelling in a bowl of rocky mountains.
Hail to thee, Beloved gingerbread mountains, with thy glittering white-dyed summit in winters, unnoticed, unexplored city of the dead.
Dryland and antique souls,
Fruit of gardens under our soles.
A surreal landscape,
My city is an untold ancient story,
Nomads, mystic, death, and glory.
I dream of flowers,
To place aside from those white coffins,
Alas, flowers here wither away,
I dream of talking to birds
To tell them I fear your wings to be clipped,
So earthquakes also lament,
The Hanna Lake speaks with deprived beauty.
In December and January, Dust of snow on trees are always lulling.
Winters turns dripping drops into icicles.
Fluttering and dancing cold breeze,
Cold barrens but warm hearts.
Richest cultures, white turbans on their head,
Embellished traditionally, aesthetically and drop dead.
They dance in circles, chant the pride of their audacity,
A culture of didactic storytelling traditions.
Damsels in embroidered apparel,
Men in White turbans,
Little girls herding sheep on suburbans,
They unfold poems of wars, tribe, beauty, tradition.
Tribes are nestled in exquisite solitude.
We live in a land of an exotic location
I look with different eyes, in search of a wise,
I am a hybrid of all the cultures.
Pathan, Baloch, Persians, Punjabi, Afghans, Uzbeki.
Esoteric, wandering, searching,
Ferocity in their eyes,
Faint glimmers in their smiles.