Poetry
Family Tree
In the quiet village of Elderwillow, nestled between emerald hills and ancient oak forests, lived a boy named Theo. He was a curious soul, full of questions and wonder, often found with a dusty book in hand or staring into the sky, trying to count stars. Theo’s house was a living museum of memories. Portraits lined the walls, sepia-toned and serious-eyed, each frame whispering untold stories. In the center of the living room stood an old wooden stand that held a sprawling parchment — his family's tree. Branches twisted and curled like ivy, with names inked in delicate script. Some were clear and bold; others faded and cracked with time. “Theo,” his grandmother Mabel often said, “our family tree is not just names on paper. It’s a map of who we are. Every branch is a story waiting to be heard.” One windy autumn afternoon, when the amber leaves danced like flames across the yard, Theo climbed up to the attic, chasing the sound of rustling paper. There, tucked inside a cedar chest, he found a peculiar box carved with vines. Inside was a key — old and iron-wrought — and a note: To find the truth, turn the key where the heartwood meets the roots. Puzzled but excited, Theo ran to the grandest tree in their backyard — the Heartwood Oak. It was older than the village, its trunk wide enough to house a dozen children. At the base, half-hidden by moss, Theo spotted a small lock etched into the bark. Click. The lock opened, revealing a hollow chamber with yellowed scrolls and weathered journals — the missing pages of the family tree. As he unrolled the first scroll, words leapt off the parchment in glowing script, and suddenly, the world spun. Theo blinked — and found himself in a cobblestone street lit by gas lamps. “Where am I?” he whispered. “You're in Elarwyn, 1823,” said a girl in a bonnet, startling him. “You must be one of the descendants.” “Theo.” “Liora. I’m your great-great-great-aunt. I ran away from home to be an inventor. Guess they finally wrote me back into the tree?” Theo’s jaw dropped. “You’re real?” She grinned. “All of us are. Every time someone remembers our story, we grow stronger.” Over the next few scrolls, Theo traveled through time and space. He met Silas, the sailor who smuggled books during wartime; Amara, a herbalist who healed a plague-struck village with her forest remedies; Idris, the silent blacksmith whose forged swords ended a rebellion; and Yara, a freedom fighter who hid messages inside embroidered quilts. Each ancestor shared not just history, but wisdom: “Courage isn't loud,” said Amara. “It’s choosing kindness when anger would be easier.” Theo returned home with a heart full of voices. The once-silent family tree now shimmered faintly at night, leaves rustling with the weight of remembered names. Inspired, he began rewriting their stories, turning whispers into ink. He created a book titled “Roots of the Wind”, bound in bark-colored leather. Every chapter ended with a blank page — a space for the future. Years passed. Theo grew, as did the tree. Visitors from distant cities came to read the tales beneath the Heartwood Oak. Children climbed its branches, listening to the wind, swearing they could hear Liora’s laughter or Silas's sea shanties. On the day Theo’s first daughter was born, he placed a new scroll into the hollow of the tree, along with a tiny key. “Your journey begins when you're ready,” he whispered. For in Elderwillow, they no longer measured time in years — but in stories. The family tree was no longer just a record of bloodlines; it was a living testament to bravery, love, sacrifice, and joy. And beneath its sheltering leaves, the past and future held hands — whispering to all who’d listen that we are never truly alone, as long as we remember where we came from. --- Moral: Our roots carry more than names — they carry dreams, courage, and stories that deserve to be told. A family tree isn't just about the past. It's a compass, quietly guiding the future.
By Tayyab Khanabout a year ago in Chapters
“The Room with No Name”
She walked into the room like a question begging to be answered. Barefoot, half-robed, skin tasting of lavender and doubt. Her name was Elizabeth — soft lips, storm eyes, and a tension in her step that betrayed everything she tried to hide.
By Randolphe Tanoguemabout a year ago in Chapters
Queen and prince love
Queen and prince love By[zakria shah] In the kingdom of Eldoria, where the sun dripped gold onto emerald fields and the moon painted the nights with silver, there lived a queen named Lyra. Her reign was one of peace and prosperity, her wisdom as vast as the starlit sky. Yet, beneath the crown, Lyra harbored a secret longing, a yearning for a love that mirrored the epic tales sung by the bards.
By Zakriashahabout a year ago in Chapters
The Secret Drawer
Growing up, there was one rule in our house I never dared to break: Don’t touch the drawer in Dad’s study. It was an ordinary drawer in an old wooden desk — scratched, dusty, the handle barely hanging on. But to me, it might as well have been a vault. Dad’s tone made it clear — that drawer was off-limits. So, I didn’t ask. I didn’t sneak. I obeyed. For years. Until curiosity outweighed fear. It was a Saturday. Dad was fixing the car, Mom was out shopping, and I was cleaning the study as part of my chores. The drawer seemed to hum with quiet temptation. My hands shook as I reached for it, expecting alarms to go off, expecting my dad to burst in, furious. But nothing happened. The drawer wasn’t locked. It slid open with a tired creak — revealing a stack of letters, old photographs, and a small, faded box. At first, it looked harmless. But then I saw the photo on top — a woman smiling, holding a baby. My breath caught. The woman wasn’t my mom. The baby wasn’t me. I sat down, sifting through letters written in Dad’s handwriting, dated years before I was born. Letters full of apologies, promises, regrets — addressed to someone named Evelyn. My heart raced as puzzle pieces fell into place. I dug deeper, finding birth certificates, hospital bills, legal documents. Dad had another family. A son. A woman he loved before my mom. My chest tightened. My head spun with questions. Why didn’t I know? Who were they? What happened? The sound of Dad’s footsteps snapped me back to reality. I shoved the drawer shut, heart pounding, mind reeling. That evening, I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t speak. My world felt… different. Shattered. Days passed before I confronted him. I found him in the study, staring at the same drawer like it held ghosts. “I opened it,” I admitted, voice barely steady. His shoulders sagged. His eyes, usually sharp and controlled, softened with sadness. “I always wondered when you would,” he whispered. He explained everything. How he fell in love young. How they had a son — my half-brother. How tragedy struck — an accident, a bitter separation, a lifetime of buried pain. “I kept it all hidden, thinking I could erase the past,” he confessed. “But I’ve learned… the past doesn’t stay buried.” We talked for hours. About mistakes. Regrets. Secrets that fester in silence. I cried — for the brother I never met, for the father I thought I knew, for the child version of me who lived in a house of hidden truths. It took time, but I forgave him. And I reached out. Months later, I met my half-brother. We shared awkward smiles, cautious words, the weight of years between us. It wasn’t perfect. But it was real. That drawer isn’t forbidden anymore. It’s a reminder — that the truth, no matter how heavy, is better than living behind locked doors.
By Straylightabout a year ago in Chapters
Every Day Is Theirs: A Heart’s Tribute to Our Parents Beyond One Day
✍️ By: Umair Ali Shah Yousafzai --- 🌸 Introduction: The Problem with “One Day” In an age where love has been reduced to emojis and celebrations are confined to trending hashtags, it’s become common to see people dedicate just one day a year to their parents — usually in the form of a well-edited photo, a generic social media caption, or a short video clip. "Happy Parents’ Day!" they declare, and with that, consider their duty fulfilled. But can one day capture the essence of lifelong sacrifice? Can a Facebook status outweigh a mother’s sleepless nights? Can an Instagram reel compensate for a father’s decades of toil? The answer — spoken by the heart — is a resounding no. Parents are not a seasonal celebration. They are the soul of our lives. They do not deserve a day; they deserve our every day, our every breath, our every success, our every prayer. --- 🕊️ A Love Beyond Comprehension Parental love is not poetic — it is prophetic. The mother’s womb becomes a sanctuary before we even open our eyes. Her body breaks to give us life. Her nights shatter so our dreams can form. Her meals go cold so ours stay warm. She becomes our shadow, our comfort, our shield. And the father? He becomes the silent mountain who absorbs the storm before it reaches us. He ages behind the curtain so we can grow on stage. His shoes wear thin so ours stay new. His pockets empty so our dreams can fill. His hands become rough while ours remain soft. Such love cannot be compared. It cannot be counted, priced, or postponed. It is as eternal as the sky — silent but all-encompassing. --- 🏠 From Cradle to Grave: They Gave Us Everything The truth is simple and painful: the very people who gave us everything, we give them the least. They carried us when we were weak. They taught us to walk, to speak, to eat. They encouraged our smallest achievements and bore our greatest failures. They forgave our rebellion, our rudeness, our rejection. They kept loving even when we didn’t love back. And what did they ask for in return? Nothing — except a little time. A little respect. A little remembrance. And yet, many of us fail even in that. --- 📅 One Day is Not Enough — It’s Almost Insulting Designating one day for parents is, in many ways, an insult wrapped in sentimentality. It suggests that gratitude can be scheduled, that love can be timed, that sacrifice can be acknowledged only when it's convenient. Do parents love only once a year? Do they support us only on Sundays? Do they pray for us only during exam season? No. Their love is relentless, their loyalty unconditional, their prayers eternal. Then how dare we give them just a day? --- 🕯️ Real-Life Reflections: Forgotten Candles of Our Lives Visit an old age home and you will see forgotten candles flickering dimly, waiting for someone to relight their flames. Mothers who once carried their children now carry loneliness. Fathers who once stood tall now sit silently by windows, hoping someone might knock on the door. "I gave him everything," says one mother, staring into her fading memories. "And now he sends money, but not himself." What do we owe them? Not riches. Not luxury. We owe them presence. We owe them honor. We owe them time. And if we fail to pay that debt in life, we will spend the rest of our lives repaying it in guilt. --- 🌙 The Islamic Perspective: A Duty, Not a Favor In Islam, honoring one's parents is not optional. It is second only to worshipping Allah. The Qur’an places “being good to parents” immediately after “worship none but Allah” (Surah Al-Isra, 17:23). > “And lower to them the wing of humility out of mercy and say: ‘My Lord, have mercy upon them as they brought me up [when I was] small.’” — (Qur’an 17:24) The Prophet Muhammad ﷺ said: > “Paradise lies beneath the feet of your mother.” “The pleasure of Allah is in the pleasure of the father.” In a world that celebrates freedom, Islam reminds us: you are never free from the duty of loving and serving your parents. --- 💔 The Western Dilemma: Celebration Without Connection In many modern societies, holidays like "Mother's Day" and "Father's Day" are celebrated with great pomp. But beneath the flowers and fancy cards lies a bitter reality — many parents live alone, neglected. The market profits from emotional neglect. Capitalism sells love, but doesn't practice it. You buy a card, send flowers, click "like" on a photo — and you're done. But love is not a transaction. True love is in changing your schedule to be with your aging parents. True respect is in asking about their health — not for politeness, but from the heart. True honor is in making them feel needed, not obsolete. --- 📖 Stories That Break the Heart A man once left his father at a senior facility, promising to return in two weeks. The weeks turned into months. The father finally said, “I don’t need your money. I need the child who once clung to my finger.” Another story tells of a woman whose son lives abroad. He sends money monthly, but hasn’t visited in five years. She keeps his childhood toys clean, thinking he may come home any day. The question isn’t whether these parents are physically alone. The question is: Why are their children emotionally absent? --- 💡 What Can We Do, Starting Today? Let’s stop thinking in hashtags and start living in actions. Here are real, practical ways to honor your parents — not just once a year, but daily: 1. Call them. Not just when you're free — call them often. 2. Visit them. Your presence matters more than gifts. 3. Sit in silence. Let them feel your calm. 4. Ask their opinions. Make them feel heard, respected, and needed. 5. Pray for them. Every prayer, every day. 6. Serve them. Bring water, massage their feet, feed them with your hands. 7. Share your life. Tell them about your joys and struggles. Let them be part of your world. --- 🌹 To the Fortunate Ones: Don’t Wait Until It’s Too Late If your parents are still alive, know this: you are living in a blessed time. You still have the opportunity to make them smile, to ease their aches, to sit beside them and just… be. Don’t wait for their graves to remember their value. Don’t take their presence for granted. If you must celebrate something, celebrate their hands that held you. Celebrate their words that guided you. Celebrate their love that never expired. 🌿 Closing Prayers: Words from the Heart to the Heavens As we close this column, we do not end with logic or poetry — we end with prayer, because only prayer carries the weight of what parents deserve. > Allah! Bless my mother with health, happiness, and peace. Forgive her mistakes and elevate her status. Place light in her grave, if she is gone, and joy in her heart, if she is alive. > Allah! Grant my father strength and serenity. Forgive him, reward him, and make his sacrifices a means of his success in both worlds. > Allah of the worlds! If I have ever disobeyed or hurt them, forgive me. And if I have ever pleased them, accept it as a seed of paradise. > The Most Merciful Allah! Keep my parents close to me in this life — and reunite me with them under Your shade in the next. Ameen. 🖋️ Final Word: Love is Measured in Time, Not Days Remember: You don’t need a “Parents’ Day” to honor your parents. You need a sincere heart, an open schedule, a little humility — and consistent action. Let us reclaim the lost beauty of honoring parents not with once-a-year posts, but with daily devotion. Let us teach the world that love is not in celebrating one day, but in cherishing every moment. Because in truth — Every day is their day. Every moment is a chance to love. And every breath we take… is because of them.
By Umair Ali Shah about a year ago in Chapters
