The wind sings to me.

The wind sings to me. 

The wind sings to me 

the lullaby of the things 

with feathers that you have 

to be tenacious even if you 

are punched with so many 

reproaches of being a man who

shed tears. Even they blow 

whistle on you bringing into

existence some unwanted 

frames that all men 

are the same. 

The wind sings to me 

that you have to be an 

omnipotent so that 

when that arm-twist verse

provoke your mental health,

and back out you insane 

imprinting so many names. 

The wind sings to me

that you have to show 

veneration and heed, and 

it's not an encumbrance 

that you follow patriarchy 

because it's some kind

of elder's need. 

The wind sings to me

that don't show 

a hostile behavior at 

any point of time, 

be placid like the sunrise 

and sunset and 

equate everyone and 

everything like a joint. 

The wind sings to me

that don't lay hold of so much 

coercion which they 

lavish upon you with so 

many blessings looped 

along, unburden yourself and 

exhale that choke out, 

because till the hell freezes over 

there is someone who 

get the picture of 

your every doubt. 

The wind sings to me

that don't be shamefaced 

of anything at all,

dissolve in tears as much as you yearn to

be a devil-may-care at times, 

and turn thumbs down when 

it comes to taking hold of all rights. 

relive your marked wish list

which you have coined from

 so long dreaming about it 

day and night. Show courtesy 

to everyone who loved your soul, 

and give a snappy comeback 

to all those evil cards who 

damned it, by the politeness 

which you have owned. 

The wind sings to me 

be a man who is puffed up 

with love and hope. 

so that the civilians, don't

ravage you with their daily soap. 

Ayesha Khalid