Wasim Barelvi
He doesn’t come to my house, I don’t go to his
Yet, distance doesn’t make our bond amiss.
Good or bad, all ties remain,
None leaves this world with more to gain.
In the hands of TV, what has become
Of homes where once fathers led their sons?
No child now follows in their stride,
A fading lineage, once full of pride.
A hundred doors opened, yet held by care,
Where would I roam, if not to return there?
These tears of love, let them quietly stay—
The secrets of the noble, in silence lay.
Tell him, ‘Wasim,’ this world is small,
Whoever enters my door, returns no call.
For once within, they no longer stray,
No wandering heart will drift away.
