Political Fantasy of Lahore’s Suburbs

He was sitting outside his shop
On Aadil Chowk
Like an Aadil would
Actually in Punjab, most people
Sit like an Aadil would
Outside his chowk
I wish I could sit outside too
But not like an Aadil would
Owning a chowk with my name
I have plans within me
Secretly hidden in a silver vein
Where dreams come prepare their ambush
And ambition drink tea truck drivers prefer
Hence I have to move beyond
The game of chowks
Nobody play openly
Until gender kicks in
Or out too in large offices
Grabbed by the last straws of voice
My name is waiting to claim
The insane phoenix of the sun
Where, for a luck-stricken moment
Lahore would wake up
Without the metropolitan nightmare
This city, her ancient vigour
Breathing like oars
Slave on ships at night
In their silent haul

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