By: Kulsoom Abid
{Picture Source: @_miss.abid_ on Instagram}
I wake beneath the rusted bench,
Where morning sun slips through leaves—soft, warm—
And stretch my bones like old truths
That still carry weight but ask no harm.
The street yawns open with honks and feet,
I watch life unravel on concrete.
Children run with bread in hand,
One tosses a crumb—my breakfast, unplanned.
Vendors chant their daily hymns,
A lady in red feeds pigeons near the temple rim.
The chaiwala whistles an old film song—
His cart smells of stories steeped too long.
I see a man cry near the lamp post,
His suitcase shut like a locked-up ghost.
He pets me gently, calls me “buddy,”
His eyes spill secrets he won’t tell anybody.
I’ve seen police catch thieves, and goons running gangs,
I’ve also seen protests rise like dust from marching bands.
I once saw a bride walk out in rain,
Laughing like sorrow had never known her name.
Monsoons flood my little square,
But I dance in puddles with muddy flair.
When winter bites, I curl like ink
In the warm story of a shopkeeper’s wink.
They say I have no master, no home—
Yet I’ve never felt entirely alone.
I am painted in dust, stitched in city hum,
A little wild hymn where no one comes.
Still, I stretch—tail high, heart free,
This world may bruise, but it shelters me.
And as the sky trades gold for gray,
I keep stretching my sorrows away.
Kulsoomified 