Author: Afraaz Siddiqui

I suffer.   Hello, my young child, You were murdered in cold blood.   Your father heard your cries, He tearfully cries “Praise be to God!” As for your mother, she’s weak with pain That cuts deeper than any wound....

Away from the deadened life of the people, Lies a Garden, covered in life but concealed.   No farmer picks its fruits except he is satisfied, And no thief can steal from it, nor can they pry.   And none are barred...