On Islamabad
The runt of the litter, now my home. Crowned by the margallas, sculpted by wild growth, your hills, your rolling, tumbling views, your patches of green in the midst of concrete and your rainy day reminders of a city that just grew up to be. I love your sectors and your quietly placed residences, and even the barriers with gawky guards who protect the unmarked embassies. I love the throb of Blue Area and the constant metro buses that ride alongside me. I love the hideous three column Centaurus and even the smaller temples of consumerism strewed about the F-sector. I love how your parks are always 5 minutes away and the constant hum of 9-to-5 people i bump into rushing about. An Additional Secretary standing behind me to buy milk, an trio of Germans leading the queue, with a gaggle of ogling desi men always around. your barriers, your chicken wires, your gates, your concrete slabs. why do you ugly yourself so, when you have leaping streets and strolling streets and running streets and skipping streets. Stay away from the dirties, they say, from the Is and Gs. But they are quaint and shoved around like a pack of old cards, and they are wildly half-Rawalpindi, half-wellbred.
The sun hits me here more warm, and night more peaceful than it's ever been.
The runt of the litter, now my home. Crowned by the margallas, sculpted by wild growth, your hills, your rolling, tumbling views, your patches of green in the midst of concrete and your rainy day reminders of a city that just grew up to be. I love your sectors and your quietly placed residences, and even the barriers with gawky guards who protect the unmarked embassies. I love the throb of Blue Area and the constant metro buses that ride alongside me. I love the hideous three column Centaurus and even the smaller temples of consumerism strewed about the F-sector. I love how your parks are always 5 minutes away and the constant hum of 9-to-5 people i bump into rushing about. An Additional Secretary standing behind me to buy milk, an trio of Germans leading the queue, with a gaggle of ogling desi men always around. your barriers, your chicken wires, your gates, your concrete slabs. why do you ugly yourself so, when you have leaping streets and strolling streets and running streets and skipping streets. Stay away from the dirties, they say, from the Is and Gs. But they are quaint and shoved around like a pack of old cards, and they are wildly half-Rawalpindi, half-wellbred.
The sun hits me here more warm, and night more peaceful than it's ever been.
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