Category Archives: Poems

If—By Rudyard Kipling


I just read this poem and really loved it. Sometimes words are so real and strong that they punch your soul and bring new thoughts towards you.




If you can keep your head when all about you

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!


Love of Mother !


Today on Mother’s Day I also want to salute those mother’s who received hater and pain from their own children.

I am sharing a clip , It is Punjabi Poem but I am trying to translate it in English. I am translating the whole clip with the introduction and then the poem.

This poem indicates the darkest part of our society where children don’t respect their parents, they even beat their mothers because mothers are weak, or this is better to say that mothers love doesn’t allow them to harm their children back.

Their are so many heart breaking stories which can fill your eyes with tears, tare your heart apart and leave the question , How can a child turned into evil for his mother ?

Here you go. Please read, listen and watch the clip.



This poem is the real story. It took me 10 years to complete this poem; I was in Pindi City one night when this poem itself awakes me and bring the completeness with itself, this poem brings all the words with it suddenly. I waked up and completed this.

This is a real story it was a poem about 2 boys Bashir and Akram living in a village and one day they reached their school very late and their Munshee( Class Master) asked Bashir why are you late? And today I am accepting that master was me, Myself Anwar Masood.

The poem goes like this….

Master asked Bashir

Oh Bashir, Why are you late?

Your village is not so far from school

I will beat you, why you are late even 2 periods had been passed

Bashir said, Master, listen to me please before punishing me

Akram has done something really bad,

He beats his mother now and then

Today he beated her so badly and so madly

Even the madani (The wooden grinder used to make Ghee) has broken

Everyone has gathered in his home

When he took his books and ran to school to save him


His mother came to our home

With bruised and swelled face

Tears full of eyes

Shivering lips with broken words

She said,

My son Bashir

Do me a favor please

Dear son.. Please take Akram’s lunch with you to school

Today he is again angry with me

He went to school hungry

I make parathas and halwa (sweet) for him

He must be hungry; he must be dying of hunger

Please my son; take Akram’s lunch with you

His mother was saying again and again,

Oh Bashir please hurry up, hurry up,

My son Akram is hungry

And Bashir ended like

Oh Master, Akram has raised hell.

Sufi Poetry by Khuwaja Ghulam Farid


Shrine Khuwaja Ghulam Farid: Photo by Ghilzai

Shrine Khuwaja Ghulam Farid: Photo by Ghilzai

Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon
Meda Deen Vi Toon Eeman Vi Toon

Meda Jism Vi Toon Meda Rooh Vi Toon
Meda Qalb Vi Toon Jind Jaan Vi Toon

Meda Kaba Qibla Masjid Mimbar
Mushaf Te Quran Vi Toon

Mede Farz Fareezay, Hajj, Zakataan
Soum Salaat Azaan Vi Toon

Meri Zohd Ibadat Ta’at Taqwa
Ilm Vi Toon Irfan Vi Toon

Mera Zikr Vi Toon Meda Fikr Vi Toon
Mera Zouq Vi Toon Wajdan Vi Toon

Meda Sanwal Mithra Shaam Saloona
Mun Mohan Janaan Vi Toon

Meda Murshid Haadi Peer Tareeqat
Shaikh Haqaa’iq Daan Vi Toon

Meda Aas Ummed Te Khattaya Wattaya
Takia Maan Taran Vi Toon

Mera Dharam Vi Toon Meda Bharam Vi Toon
Meda Sharam Vi Toon Meda Shaan Vi Toon

Meda Dukh Sukh Ro’wan Khilan Vi Toon
Meda Dard Vi Toon Darmaan Vi Toon

Mda Khushiyan Da Asbaab Vi Toon
Mede Soolaan Da Samaan Vi Toon

Mera Husn Te Bhaag Suhaag Vi Toon
Meda Bakht Te Naam Nishaan Vi Toon

Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon
Meda Deen Vi Toon Eeman Vi Toon

Meda Jism Vi Toon Meda Rooh Vi Toon
Meda Qalb Vi Toon Jind Jaan Vi Toon

Meda Kaba Qibla Masjid Mimbar
Mushaf Te Quran Vi Toon

Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon
Meda Deen Vi Toon Eeman Vi Toon
Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon

Aaa Ooo (Chants…)
Meda Dekhan Bhalan Jachan Jochan
Samjhan Jaan Sunjaan Vi Toon

Mede Thadray Saah Te Monjh Munjhari
Hanjroon De Tofaan Vi Toon

Mede Tilk Tilo’ay Seendhaan Mangaan
Naaz Nihoray Taan Vi Toon

Medi Mehdni Kajal Misaag Vi Toon
Medi Surkhi Beera Paan Vi Toon

Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon

Medi Wehshat Josh Junoon Vi Toon (Aaa)
Meda Garya Aa’h O Faghan Vi Toon (Aaa)

Meda Awwal Aakhir Andar Bahir
Zahir Te Pinhaan Vi Toon Tooon

Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon

Aaaa Meda Waal Aakhir Andar Baahir
Zahir Te Pinhaan Vi Toon

Meda Badal Barkha Khimniyan Gajaan (Aaa)
Barish Te Baraan Vi Toon

Meda Mulk Malir Te Maro Khalra
Rohi Cholistaan Vi Toon

Je Yaar Farid Qabool Karay
Srikaar Vi Toon Sultaan Vi Toon

Na Taan Kehtar Kamtar Ahqar Adna
La-Shay La-Imkaan Vi Toon

Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon
Meda Ishq Vi Toon Meda Yaar Vi Toon.

Shrine of Khuwaja Ghulam Farid, Photo by Ghilzai

Shrine of Khuwaja Ghulam Farid, Photo by Ghilzai



You Are My Ardour
You are my ardour, my friend, faith, creed.
You are my body, you are my spirit, heart, soul.
You’re the direction towards which I pray.
You are my Mecca, my mosque, my pulpit.
You are my holy books and my Quran.
You are my religious obligations,
My Hajj, charity, fasting, call to prayer.
You are my asceticism, worship,
My obedience and my piety.
You are my knowledge and you’re my gnosis .
You’re my remembrance, my contemplation
You are my tasting and my ecstasy.
You are my love, my sweet, my darling, my honey
You are my favourite, and my soulmate!
You’re my spiritual preceptor, my guide ,
You are my Shaykh and my Enlightened One
You are my hope, my wish, my gains, losses.
You’re all I see, my pride, my deliv’rance.
You’re my faith, my honour, modesty, glory
You’re my pain, sorrow, my crying, playing
You are my illness and my remedy.
You are what lulls me to a peaceful sleep.
You are my beauty and my fate, fortune, fame.
You are my looking, enquiring, seeking
You are my understanding, my knowing
You are my henna, my collyrium,
My rouge, my tobacco, my betel-leaf!
You are my terror, my passion, madness
You’re my crying and my lamentation.
You are my Alpha and my Omega,
My Inner, Outer, Hidden, Manifest.
If, O’Belovéd, you accept Farid
You are my Sovereign and my Sultan.


Inside View of Shrine, Photo by Ghilzai

Inside View of Shrine, Photo by Ghilzai


The Professional Wanderer


The Professional Wanderer by Henry Lawson (1867 – 1922)


When you’ve knocked about the country—been away from home for years;

When the past, by distance softened, nearly fills your eyes with tears—

You are haunted oft, wherever or however you may roam,

By a fancy that you ought to go and see the folks at home.

You forget the family quarrels—little things that used to jar—

And you think of how they’ll worry—how they wonder where you are;

You will think you served them badly, and your own part you’ll condemn,

And it strikes you that you’ll surely be a novelty to them,

For your voice has somewhat altered, and your face has somewhat changed—

And your views of men and matters over wider fields have ranged.

Then it’s time to save your money, or to watch it (how it goes!);

Then it’s time to get a ‘Gladstone’ and a decent suit of clothes;

Then it’s time to practise daily with a hair-brush and a comb,

Till you drop in unexpected on the folks and friends at home.

When you’ve been at home for some time, and the novelty’s worn off,

And old chums no longer court you, and your friends begin to scoff;

When ‘the girls’ no longer kiss you, crying ‘Jack! how you have changed!’

When you’re stale to your relations, and their manner seems estranged ;

When the old domestic quarrels, round the table thrice a day,

Make it too much like the old times—make you wish you’d stayed away,

When, in short, you’ve spent your money in the fulness of your heart,

And your clothes are getting shabby . . . Then it’s high time to depart.