It’s a gambler’s passion—to win, not just a game, To win a million or go penniless—who’s to blame?
Poems forever
By Emily Dickinson
Before the ice is in the pools,
Before the skaters go,
Or any cheek at nightfall
Is tarnished by the snow,
Before the fields have finished,
Before the Christmas tree,
Wonder upon wonder
Will arrive to me!
What we touch the hems of
On a summer’s day;
What is only walking
Just a bridge away;
That which sings so, speaks so,
When there’s no one here,—
Will the frock I wept in
Answer me to wear?
By Mashaal Farid
When I grow old...
I shall have an assessable laugh
on my lips, painted a bright shade of red.
With that, I’ll talk loud
and express my barefaced joy.
I shall also ask questions,
questions that must trigger no more.
For I’ll be old, and no one shall care.
I shall carry many plans...
to roam places on my own in foreign lands.
My feet will explore debarred grounds,
curbed air will caress my open hair.
Perhaps then I shall not be condemned,
nor for a whistle uninvited
or a flirtatious remark unentertained.
For I’ll be old, and no one shall care.
And I shall rejoice in friendships when
I grow old.
I would not be told,
nor tried to be moulded.
I shall celebrate my folk a little more,
stay affirmative,
barely get provoked.
For I’ll be old, and I shall take care
of those banished from lodges of
assessable laughter.
I think I must grow old...
to be a free woman.
By Laiba Ahmad
Rushing to the doors,
Melting of hearts,
Trusting your own—
All has ceased
Since the ‘90s departed.
Reviving the conventions
Would be better and adored.
Those honest souls,
Where kindness galore—
Is it not possible?
Ask yourself,
Do not fall apart.
This damaged world
Needs unification as a whole.
By Abid Agha
It’s a gambler’s passion—to win, not just a game,
To win a million or go penniless—who’s to blame?
A white die, numbered in prominent blue,
Twists and twirls as the wheel spins through.
Hundreds of eyes, glued to the roulette,
Waiting anxiously for its spin to set,
Hearts pounding fast, breaths held tight,
In this game of chance, veiled in night.
The race for millions now begins,
With each spin, fate laughs or grins.
As the wheel comes slowly to a halt,
Some find glory, others taste bitter salt.
The game endures, luring yet more,
Its daily clamor heard across the shore.
“Try your luck!”—that’s the house decree,
Be a king or a beggar; fate holds the key.
Roulette’s spin might make you a winner,
Or leave you with nothing—a mere beginner.
