Desperate Moments Poem by Quaid-Uz- Zaman

Each house is a volcano
live or dead,
gushing out lava red,
panic is the name for white blood cells;

Witches telling tales to their's progeny,
owls knitting silence in vain, sorry, I can't tell tomorrow's fate,
even after a second, my breath is a mystery, bending always towards the western sky.

Still under the rubble beneath the ashes, I will keep on searching...
I want my magic lantern back.

Shadows wandering,
black deaths hovering
over the long stretched Milky Way,
I hear the soft sounds descending,
I turn to the soul,
Oh! Welcome, my native language.