Poem

Between breathing and a breath, I string a silence,

Each inhale, a whisper of the Infinite.

Faults I sought in the beloved dissolved,

For the mirror reflects only what the eye holds.

Not in thunder, but in the hush of presence,

The unseen moves — quiet, vast, and whole.

Not sought in form, but known in essence,

The sacred reveals itself in stillness alone.

©Irfan Suhrawardy 

Poemlet

Fortune kissed their skin

like morning mist.

While I sank in oceans

no sun had kissed.

They paused where light

embraced the ground,

I wandered through silence,

yet to be found.

© Irfan Suhrawardy.

Poem

Sinking deep, I stirred the tide,
Not to flee, but let one ride.
If not my breath that reached the shore,
Another soul might rise once more.

Why curse the night for being still,
When light was ours to shape the will?
One quiet flame, though doomed to fade,
Could still have touched the dark we made.

© Irfan Suhrawardy.

شاید!

Maybe the heavens remember what we’ve forgotten,

Perhaps time doesn’t move — it listens.

Possibly, we are echoes from a dream the cosmos once whispered,

And maybe, in the stillness between two breaths,

We find the fragments of who we truly are.

© Irfan Suhrawardy.

Change

The selfish, intolerant, indifferent air—

Was no more there, it vanished fair.

As it ought to, so snaily, so dim,

Fading away at the twilight's brim.

Not some, but many walked its thread,

In untailored ways, where silence led.

To find the depth of what it meant,

And shield their souls from sly intent.

The heights it gained, looked weak,

Feeble, plain, and soft to speak.

But therein lay its veiled might—

Not born in day, nor grown in night.

It was a process, slow and wide,

A swelling tide one could not guide.

It asked not much, just patience still,

And hearts prepared for time to fill.

Some felt it as a silent shore—

The deadly hush before the roar.

© Irfan Suhrawardy.

کیوں؟

“Why?”—a word so small,

yet it unravels the vast unknown.

Not all echoes seek answers;

some just linger to be heard.

The soul moves in patterns thought can’t trace,

and silence often speaks what language cannot.

Reason hides where feeling leads,

and sometimes, not knowing is the knowing.

© Irfan Suhrawardy .

Almost, Unmade

They passed—unspoken.

A breath in silk.

Eyes. Lost to shadows,

shadows where I once lived.

Familiar footsteps

on unfamiliar ground.

The scent of memory

brushing the edge of my skin.

And in that silence?

A fire stirred.

Not loud. Not wild.

But familiar.

Forbidden.

Slow.

And sweet.

©Irfan Suhrawardy