I sit, like a forgotten flowerpot
On a rusted balcony,
Where once a bloom had lived—
And no one remembers anymore.
Nisar Banbhan, a seasoned poet and writer, based in Karachi, the capital city of Sindh shares his poetry
Hailing from Village Mir Muhammad Banbhan, Taluka Mirwah, District Khapurpur and based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh, Nisar Banbhan is a seasoned professional with nearly 25 years of multifaceted experience, encompassing 3 years in journalism and over two decades of service in a public sector organization. His extensive expertise spans content creation, scriptwriting, screenwriting, lyrics, poetry, and storytelling across multiple languages, including Sindhi, Urdu, and English. Nisar has honed his skills in writing articles, columns, and short stories, contributing to various national and regional media outlets. Additionally, he brings a deep understanding of program development, educational advocacy, and strategic planning, having led initiatives that promote quality education and foster community empowerment. His passion for literature and education merges seamlessly, enabling him to craft impactful narratives that resonate with diverse audiences while driving meaningful change in society.
In the Balcony of Memories
I sit in the balcony of memories—
Leaning over time’s railing,
Trying to catch the shadows
Of your voice as they pass.
The gusts of my words,
At times, flutter like your dupatta
Across the quiet air…
And you—
Like a southern breeze in retreat—
Refuse to ever pause.
Do you remember?
I never wrote you letters—
Only gave you poems.
You must have
Either tossed them away
Or locked them in a chest
With a vow never to open them again.
After all,
Poems weigh heavier than letters;
They don’t hold addresses—
They carry shadows of shade.
Even my color had once come up…
You’d said,
“You’re dusky—
Perhaps that’s why you seem beautiful—
Or else, in this lifetime,
This love might never have been written.”
And I—
I adorned my whole fate
With that single sentence.
Still now,
I switch off the lights at night,
Lighting one cigarette after another,
Letting your memory smolder.
Each curl of smoke
Forms a wandering comma—
A virgula
In some unfinished sentence.
I lie belly-down—
Watching the ceiling fall to the floor.
The fan,
Like a spinning top,
Whirls and sinks slowly
Into the earth…
And I—
I remain buried beneath
The soil of emptiness,
Unmoving, unbothered.
You are virtuous—
And I—
I’m just a wayward thought,
Afraid I might lead you astray.
So I’ve stepped aside from your path,
Passing time
On a weathered bench
At the edge of forgotten seasons.
Bitten by companionships,
Bruised by desires,
I wandered through your city—
A victor still defeated.
The alleys never called my name,
The doors refused to know me,
And the heart—
It had already forsaken itself.
Now, my pockets hold
Old coins of love—
But in this modern market,
They’re no longer accepted.
Your sorrow
Grew like a tree
In the palm of my hand—
While the lines etched there
Were always fated with separation.
Such is the silence now—
That even the grief
Of your absence
No longer grieves me.
I sit, like a forgotten flowerpot
On a rusted balcony,
Where once a bloom had lived—
And no one remembers anymore.
________________
