The night is without walls or doors,
No veil to conceal it,
For who can say—
Who’s God is hidden in the night?
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.
This Simplicity of Mine Hurts Me So
This Simplicity of Mine Hurts Me SoEndless is the Night, to the Edge of Solitude
This night, within all hearts, lies concealed
A blind wolf, lurking deep—
It suddenly awakens,
Sniffing the darkness of the soul.
There is no debris of night,
Only the clenched fist of night itself—
Filled with nothing but fear,
And terrifying dreams that haunt.
Endless is the night, stretching to the brink of solitude,
Within the embrace of night,
Lies a hidden, venomous dagger.
The night is without walls or doors,
No veil to conceal it,
For who can say—
Who’s God is hidden in the night?
***
This Night is the Day of Black Deceit
This Night is the Day of Black DeceitThis night is the whirlpool of darkness,
That has dwelled in my land
For centuries, unmoving.
Yes, this night belongs to the world of the jackal—
It is both silence and the speech of sleeping gods.
This night is the name of a proud and merciful Creator,
Wrapped in the cloak of a tattered robe.
It is the ash of the heavens,
And the play of embers.
This night is a festival of the descendants of Hulagu,
A ceaseless anthem of the night of blood.
On the shores of this night,
We stand, while the scheming mobs gather
And revel in their deceit.
In this night, the pigs gather in their meetings,
A night when dogs attack crying children.
The darkness of ages is washed in blood,
But this night never washes clean.
From the filth of evil spirits’ bodies,
It grows with each passing moment—
It is the water of union,
And the tale of separation.
This night guards the prayers,
And preserves the sanctity of society,
But this night is not ours, it is yours—
You who have claimed the heavens as your own.
***
It is Nostalgia
It is NostalgiaTime travels in all directions—
Right, left, forward, and backward.
This time, too, is but a shadow of existence…
Sometimes, it walks ahead while glancing behind,
And sometimes, while looking ahead, it begins to walk backward.
Now, I consider it my own existence,
The fabric of moments woven by time’s fingers.
I place it before you—
Look at it through the eyes of the heart.
In it, you will see the wool of torment tightly spun.
You will see how, just last night,
A shock from a past event knocked fiercely at the door of my heart.
Moments scattered like a bed spread out for me,
I don’t know why I suddenly awoke,
Gripped by thoughts, I held my feet still,
Telling myself, after sipping the comforting drink of solace,
It was just a dream, maybe—
A dream it must have been. So I dismiss the scenes,
And lie back down.
But then, a thought struck me,
Its pain like a bite of sugar,
I wondered why not capture the image of that dream,
So, with bare feet, I went searching for a pen and paper,
Like a guest in my own room,
My hands trembling as I held the pen.
When I placed its tip on the paper, it screamed in pain,
The words wouldn’t fall—my pen had become barren.
I realized, from the shock,
I had wrapped myself in another blanket of pain.
Only one mark appeared on the page,
A silent impression,
With eyes that swayed, asking questions.
And I stared at it, trying to find answers in those eyes.
But like the pockets of the destitute,
My mind and heart, too, were empty,
Just like the pen, barren.
For a moment, we simply stared at each other,
As if introducing ourselves,
A wounded smile blossomed on the lips of the mark.
Then words began to speak,
As though the mute was telling its own story,
In its own voice.
“How much do you truly understand of pain and torment,
Oh, one who claims to be a poet?”
“I shape pain into verse,” I answered,
“Before you speak of torment, know this:
Only after you understand it,
Can you stitch it into your hollow words?”
Last night, in my neighborhood,
A sixteen-year-old girl was burned with bullets.
And I, who roam as the metaphor of pain,
Had slept soundly, after writing a few poems.
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