Shoukat Lohar is Assistant professor in English at Mehran University of Engineering and Technology Jamshoro. He can be reached at Shoukat.firstname.lastname@example.org
In days of old, when dreams were born in ink,
Our bards, like troubadours, with tales did link.
Their words, a tapestry of hopes and plight,
Unveiling truths that danced within the night.
But lo! A tempest blew, a cruel gust,
That whispered tales of fortune’s wicked lust.
Their pens, once proud, now trembled in despair,
As poverty’s cold hand cast its snaring snare.
Sold, they were, like chattel in the market square,
Their spirits wrenched, their souls laid bare.
A bargain struck, their worth, oh, how it waned,
As soil they called their own, now deemed profaned.
Latif and Ali Baba’s lavish lore,
A distant realm their pens could not explore.
For gold, a tempting mistress, held them fast,
While dreams of
Grandeur turned to shadows cast.
Alas! They auctioned themselves, a grievous plight,
Their voices silenced, veiled in endless night.
No longer free, their verses chained and bound,
In servitude, their genius tightly wound.
Yet, let us not forget their noble art,
For though they sold their soil, their precious part,
Their words, once sown, still echo through the years,
Resonating still, amidst the world’s arrears.
So raise your voices, poets, far and near,
Let not the chains of commerce fuel your fear.
For in the darkest hour,
The muse shall rise,
And reclaim the essence of your sacred ties.