What have I seen of life,
and what have I lost?
To most, I’m a tattered soul
walking about,
carrying a calico of ashes—
the ashes of a distant past, they say.
Oh honey, only if you knew—
Only if you knew.
I belong to the city of storytellers,
The beating heart of Gandhara, Kushans, Mauryans,
White Huns, Ghori’s, Ghaznavids, Sikhs,
Durranis, Mughals, Persians, Greeks, and Buddhists.
You say you’ve claimed the dominion over seven kingdoms—
I am the living testament of ten civilizations and more.
I am the home of Peshoris, Pathans, Marwaris, Christians, and Sikhs.
The dark truth remains:
All but one is forced to hide—
as shadow within my walls,
creating fault lines of divide
rather than liberation and unity.
Oh, the sweet melodies echoing within my walls,
turning mountains into clouds,
Dancing to the songs of Hindko and Pashto—
a crescendo of tunes aligning the stars.
So, in the veil of darkness,
I wander the streets,
stamping lilies upon the doors of lost souls.
The tattered tales would never admit—
I am the kingdom of resilience.
I am the enchanted city of Peshawar.
Photography by: Muhammad Hussam on Unsplash
