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The Search

The emotions have lost,
The bankless clamour;
The days, months and years,
Have healed the wounds,
Deep and grievous,
Of the mourning heart;
That it received breaking
Asunder in twain, When
A part of my country parted,
Whose thorns smelt even like roses.

Who knows how many caravans
Passed by, the sifting sands
Have erased the prints;
But still I wander in the wilderness,
In search of Quaid like leading figure,
Containing in the heart warmth of sincerity;
And in the brain light of wisdom.
Who knows how long,
I have to ramble depressed, disappointed.

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