Ashfaq Quotes & Sayings

Come with me, come with me
I'll revisit the solitary mosque near hill brook,
Where men are scarce, come let's see,
I'll hold your hands as I took
The hands of my shiver strains,
Of poignant losses, of miniscule gains,
Come with me across these marsh mellows
Dividing our men into doves and scarecrows!
Come sit with the longing in these abandoned rows
where the frozen eyes burn renunciation stoves,
Let's visit the solitary mosque near hill brook; — Ashfaq Saraf

Creativity is the lifeblood of American ingenuity and the yellow brick road to the American Dream. — Ashfaq Ishaq

All systems in Pakistan appear to be in a haste to achieve something, which can have both positive and negative implications. Let us take a pause and examine the two fundamental questions: One, are we promoting the rule of law and the Constitution? Two, are we strengthening or weakening the institutions? — Ashfaq Parvez Kayani

There is no harm in not forgetting. Think of a small ship amid storming waters - raging and cruel; who forgets that? Not the man who was rescued. Never the man who rescued consciously. Neither the man whose kin could not be rescued. Nor the man who decided not to rescue. — Ashfaq Saraf

I know that I know nothing. — Ashfaq Ahmed

In the ultimate analysis, all of us would have served Pakistan better if history and our future generations judge us positively. — Ashfaq Parvez Kayani

Back home Chinars sniff autumn breeze,
and green leaves blush to crimson frangibility;
Yet it is me here drinking coffee, thinking airplanes; — Ashfaq Saraf

Feet gauge the pliable tracts of snowy hoodlum
Amidst the pacing sobs of our night sky
I watch you go, I watch them come
Within the life span of an iridescent sigh;
I watch the tracks bereft of a human hand,
I watch them trite in thy laconic land,
I watch them silent from where I stand,
I watch them marking a bloodied rand,
I watch the tracks bereft of a human hand,
I watch them silent from where I stand. — Ashfaq Saraf

What hands do I possess?
What sight!
What deliberations do I confess?
What plight! — Ashfaq Saraf

My mother sang me a lullaby,
my mother had not slept for a while,
her hands the same: craggy and agile.
the wooden ceiling emanated the same tie:
sulky fumes of disdain.
We were never given to forgetfulness,
We were occupied. — Ashfaq Saraf

Last night I swallowed froth
and its vulnerabilities within a populous coast.
I swallowed it like I was brought
forth from a deep agony.
And you were the host.
They say the sleep returns us to the senses,
I slept all the while fiddling with the pretenses
that I don't see you; that I won't see you.
I must have been a fool over the utterance of "who"
Last night I took a bow,
I must have been in love. — Ashfaq Saraf

This sentence pinned itself to my memory like moon pinned to the night sky - sometimes whole in sight, sometimes crescent, sometimes behind the clouds, but assuredly there, always there. — Ashfaq Saraf

I have scratched the steepness
of the uphill road lying under my feet,
collecting pebbles in dust: the days of which you confess.
But I have decided not to retreat.
I have decided to sing in blood dripping gowns,
I have decided to meet all of it in deserted towns.
I have decided to not let it go, to not let it go,
I have decided to keep you, to keep you so. — Ashfaq Saraf

Let's stop by the shades of a tavern--
Selling raspberry handshakes,
Let's recline by the shimmer of a lantern-
Trampling the silence of snowflakes; — Ashfaq Saraf

Any effort which wittingly or unwittingly draws a wedge between the people and Armed Forces of Pakistan undermines the larger national interest. — Ashfaq Parvez Kayani

Every Mistake Teach Us a Lesson — Ashfaq Ahmed

Each day adds a bead
to the ever peevish episodes of frailty,
I try running at an unkempt speed,
returning back like waves into a cruel sea; — Ashfaq Saraf

The saddest of the tales are those which have no words reserved for the protagonist's Mother to speak! — Ashfaq Saraf

See through the hollow eyes of today
yesterday lurks like an idol of dry clay,
I can't cuddle it, for it is too meek for a hug
it is too meek for a pat
I can't let it shrug
off the sweat gathered through summers,
winters and the longing born thereof.
ask them to stop,
Would you please ask them to stop. — Ashfaq Saraf

Memory is the worst lender; It lends not until it borrows. And it borrows not unless it is broke at the previous lending. — Ashfaq Saraf

In the sense of attributing to the claimant a prognostic view of his present ailments, freedom has always been of the oppressed. — Ashfaq Saraf

Sleep is a form of nostalgia. It evaluates you for the kind of longings you possess. And for the people in exile, it is the only place where home is not away, where the origin is not detached, where love is reciprocated and memory is not a mere object of refuge. — Ashfaq Saraf

Gather Me


Scatter me into the digression of this noise
For, I hear not when my eyes are at peace.
I smother the audacity in my voice
Hiding behind a half-charred fleece;
Let me dwell with the fleeting score,
For, I breathe not when my heart is agog!
I strangle the remains of what you tore
Building the ruins of a deserted synagogue;
Then, gather me
From the compositions of a faded song,
From the reverberations of an unaided gong;
From the mirth of our spring sky,
From the waters where thirsts lie;
From the sleekness of white-rose petals,
From the shrieks of remorse bells;
From the digression of laughter beats,
From the silence of bloodied streets;
From the eyes of their precarious silence,
From there; thence, from there; thence,
Then, gather me. — Ashfaq Saraf

Death is always an event in future. Its presence is unrealizable. Its absence is unmanageable. It is a concrete intangibility in that its nature is somehow non-human. Man, thus must be a subject of constant simplification going from a stage of 'more' to a stage of 'less'. Man, thus must always be dying. — Ashfaq Saraf

This night is a scuttle through which I can see you fall asleep,
And as you do (remember) I think to myself:
What have I to gain from the dreams picking roses and dew,
So I take a deep breath and snore
before it is sunrise or something akin to morning four
I mean 4 am,
I must sleep and keep you there, anywhere
until it is not beside my wagging eyebrows--anywhere! — Ashfaq Saraf

What pages did I write?
What bellicosity!
What words did I bite?
What ferocity!
This ink, in magnanimity, as I took,
Find me a humble name in your stale book,
This hour, from shrewdness, as I steal
My scars heal, my imaginations kneel;
These musings around your benevolent brook
Find me a humble name in your stale book,
Find me a humble name in your stale book. — Ashfaq Saraf

No matter how soft you try to grow it, if the soil is full of stones it won't flourish. It would rather grow in ugly patches, here and there, making a mockery of your gardening effort. Better remove the stones first; the spring is not going to last long. Next would be next year; who lives till then? — Ashfaq Saraf

There must occur a time in every man's life when the idea of a sudden, irrational death does not frighten him. This shall suffice to cure a lot of his persistent miseries. — Ashfaq Saraf

Ashfaq Parvez Kayani had expounded: the Taliban, or specifically the Haqqanis, were an asset that Pakistan needed to keep in order to have a strong ally in Afghanistan when the American and international forces left.4 At the core of Pakistan's thinking was an obsessive desire to dominate Afghanistan in order to protect its own rear flank from India. In that way of thinking, the Taliban were guarantors of Pakistan's national strategic interests. As — Carlotta Gall

Now that you offer me the platter,
Kitchen makes a wry face
Burning stove priorities in grudged flames,
Like the dissembling of prominent names,
Kitchen makes a wry face,
Now that you offer me the platter,
I render my nights insane
Like the murky hugs of a sweet pain,
I pierce my days with a blunt knife
Like the aftermath of a indelible strife,
I cajole my laughter to a calm silence
Like the death of a young boy, hence;
Now that you offer me the platter,
I place my hunger on my finger tips,
My taste in the credulousness of my lips,
I place my honour in the chocking sips,
Now that you offer me the platter.
The Harkening — Ashfaq Saraf

There hung a certain colour - somewhat akin to colour of despair in sleepless eyes - in the house and as they'd sit for dinner it protruded the relish out of their mouths. — Ashfaq Saraf

Sculpting them in a drizzle shawl,
I would have have weaved your dreams
in my distinct eyes;
I would have taken your cheeks,
and decorated them with full moon sights,
writing verses with starry eyes;
I would have invented diction suiting
your stammering tongue,
writing stories about your happy childhood;
I would have traveled beside western winds,
bringing roses from far lands, from Samarkand,
from the rose gardens touching Turkish valleys,
from mountains smelling of Azerbaijan.
I would have portrayed you a an honest mother,
buying your children a happy house, a giant sky;
I would have made orchards of your ripe smiles,
tending rains and sunlight into their broad borders;
Ah, I would have sown your braided hair
into almonds, saffron and homegrown walnuts,
into tufts of a lifelong breeze. — Ashfaq Saraf

shut the door behind u........... — Ashfaq Ahmed

That a lie can exist reveals a very precarious slope on which human life trundles. What is a lie in its essence?
Is it the possibility of creating another form of truth, which is to say another possibility of an event which if true could have been as fair; or so to speak in a very pessimistic tone, an act of subversion or perversion or inversion or reversion of a kind. Or is it that a lie alters the very nature of human psychological tendencies - which somehow desire a harmony, albeit sometimes in a violent manner.
That a lie exists reveals that there are possibilities beyond what exists; that existence sometimes is a mere human creation; that ideal is not what is desirable, it is something of a promise which veils itself in categories new each time the real is undesirable; that non-existence is a farce until we are not in a position to unexist. — Ashfaq Saraf

I am the love, the pain, the intensity
I am the remnants of a banished plea;
I am the trivialized doors of a jubilant home
I am the shadows of an abandoned dome;
I am the instinct, the bizarre sound
I am the fate of a trampled mound;
I am the words half-heard when half-said
I am the memories of a longing thread;
I am the anarchist in disdain,
I am the bewilderment of an orphan pain;
I am your hand, I am the bar
I am the bellicosity of our resilient scar;
I am the love, the pain, the intensity
I am the predicament of the silent sea. — Ashfaq Saraf

That small freckle postulates a grin on my face:
see to it that midnight reeks insomniac on your eyes;
I turn the pillow upside down to not smell my breath again
Is there, aside from my memory, for you a better place? — Ashfaq Saraf

Come with me, come with me,
Come with me, for these limbs are meek
Which hold together time's encumbered knee;
Which playfully caress its withered cheek;
Come with me until the Muezzin is done calling,
Come with me until the moon is done strolling,
Come with me until the rains appear in summer,
Come with me until these rose faces turn glummer,
Come with me unto the end of this rhyme,
Come with me unto the birth of that chime,
Come with me, come with me,
Come with me and with my impertinent plea. — Ashfaq Saraf

Winter is derogatory in my street,
Wearing pompous feet,
Cajoling nights into a bellicose defeat,
Winter is so derogatory in my street,
Holding draggers in emaciated fists,
Aimed at the generous camouflage
Wallowing within fragmented wrists,
Singing without the calumnies large;
Winter is derogatory in my street,
Weaving the segregation of summer heat,
With bile laughter, beat after beat
On the remains of scalded time sheet; — Ashfaq Saraf

A creative America has walls for structure but no ceilings at all. The doors and windows always stay open. No member who wants in is left out. Outsider ideas are invited and celebrated....Each creator grows the revolution. Whatever kind of creator you may be, you are part of the revolution's orchestra, its folk music, chorus, melody, and anthem. — Ashfaq Ishaq