IFTIKHAR HUSAIN RIZVI
The grinder is dropping
things
Into the grindstones
At whatever he lays his
hands upon
A thousand things lie
tumbled down
A heaped incongruously.
Amidst the heap are
lying
The songs of joy, the
blooms of love,
The palms of triumph,
the buds of hope,
The wings of truth, the
lips of faith,
The pearls of weal, the
eyes of woe,
The leaves of help, the
limbs of care,
The cheeks of charm, the
brows of grace,
The shields of honour
newly won,
And valour’s trophies
writ in blood,
The wounded face of
honesty,
The unheard sighs of
innocence,
And even the idols of
goods.
Some are moist-eyed,
some bravely gaze,
But all alike wait for
their turn
To be ground to smithereens.