The Little Martyr

I skipped in the school building so tall
With a smile like a bubbly China doll
”I shan’t fail the test today, I know”
I murmur’d, merrily dancing to and fro.

”Prepared for the test, my dear friend?
I ponder when such difficulties shall end…”
Sighed an intimate, pally class fellow
Turned whose face pale and yellow.

A girl sitting alone beam’d at her palm
She mumbled in her voice so calm
”So this one, as they say, is life’s line…
Oh dear! How teeny-weeny is mine!

The time flied swiftly like a morn’s ray
And soon the grand test on the table lay
I picked up my reliable lead pencil
Solving the questions with grace and will.

Shaggy seven men barged into the room
Blind bullets in the class began to zoom
Crimson tears gushed out of every soul
Bleating like lambs in pain and dole.

Scarlet drops then leaked out me too
Saw my eyes nothing but a blurry hue
Then a shining impact, a flare of light
That dimmed into an ink-black night.

A sunny beam lit the tenebrous scene
The floor faded into a land so green
Of the finest fruits and velvety flowers
Amidst water-springs shining like stars.

A balmy aroma wafted in the garden
Shimmer’d by the lucid, winking sun
I tasted the delicious, mellow breeze
Standing beneath the towering trees.

I plucked a ruby-red pomegranate
From its tree so viridian and great
In gaiety profound took I a big bite
Relishing the squishy fruit so bright.

When all at once heard I a shriek
A cry so scarce, vague and weak
I tried to ken the gloomy wail
But saw none in the flowery vale.

Felt I a soft stroke on my hair
Saw I a lady, pearl-white and fair
Her kohl-lined eyes beam’d at me
That sheened like a deep, sunlit sea.

”Kudos to you for passing the test
You’ve nothing now to do but to rest
Welcome to the life eternal and blithe
You shall now dwell in for-e’er delight.

Yet you shall hear mewls and mourns
Of your dears bleeding in thorns
But be merry, sadden your heart not
For life there is deceitful and fraught”

Joyous indeed is my existence here
Without any rues, without any fear
Yet I do hear my mother’s cries
And yearn to dry her drizzly eyes.

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Muhammad Farhan Ahmed

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I was born in Rawalpindi, Pakistan. I started writing at the age of 11. I am a passionate poet and I use the power of my heart and my imaginations to write poems. I've been writing poetry for five years. I initially wrote free-verse poetry but I was inspired by William Wordsworth's poems and then I switched to rhythmic poetry. I am a poet of emotions and sentimentality. I embellish my thoughts and ideas by adding several metaphors, idioms, and similes. In 2013, I participated in an inter-school poetry competition in which I was awarded the first prize. I'm hoping to publish a book which compiles up all my poems, called ''Farhanite''. In my opinion, being a poet is like living in a world of dreams and inner visualizations, that you turn into words adorned by beautiful metaphors, similes, idioms, and rhymes. Poetry is a tool that completely changes your personality, your style, your ambitions, and in short, you.
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1 Comment on "The Little Martyr"

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wow Muhammad that had my heart crying. We see these bad things happen on the news,
but poetry for me makes it real and I feel. I just hope there truly is something than nothing.
Great poetry how this missed comments I do not know.


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