Sometimes,
A single sentence someone throws
Lands softly on my chest —
Like a brittle leaf…
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.
Like a Falling Leaf…
Like a Falling Leaf… Sometimes,
A single sentence someone throws
Lands softly on my chest —
Like a brittle leaf
Let go by a tired tree in autumn…
And I tremble a little inside,
As if I’ve heard echoes
From a long-forgotten hallway
Where my childhood still sits
Quietly clutching its little failures.
They speak —
And I don’t just hear words,
I hear echoes of every “not enough”
I ever stored away
In the back of my school notebooks
Where the red marks whispered shame.
It isn’t the sting of the moment—
It’s the ache of something ancient,
A wound still warm
Beneath the skin of memory.
But then,
One day, silence took my hand
And gently whispered:
“Pause —
Look at this from a softer angle,
Like watching sunlight spill
On the mirror’s edge,
Not just your reflection…”
That’s when I began to see —
Not every arrow
Is meant for my heart.
Some simply drift through the air
Born of someone else’s storm,
Not mine.
And now,
When a voice rises
Like a wave against me,
I blink —
And remind myself:
“This is not about you.
This is their pain, not your worth.”
I am learning…
To let go of every word
That tries to settle in my bones,
Like dust in a room
No longer mine.
And when the voices return
I quietly shut the window,
Like a mother does,
Closing it against the wind,
So the child doesn’t wake.
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