Rising like the wanderer from desert’s grasp
No respite, no sanctuary to clasp,
City’s streets, barren in their hold,
Every path echoes the jungle’s bold.
Restless heart, a desert in its core,
‘Midst bewildered blooms, it seeks no more,
Whispers of the wind, its tales implore,
Wounds upon wounds, the heart does store.
Azra Mughal
