The weightage of words, not the vocabulary
Is the food for ardor and import.
They fly long distance like an arrow from its scabbard,
Feathery festive like a celebrity
Grounded in solid earth.
Words in a book stand tall weather the test of time
Nuanced threads in a sentence
Measure quantified in gravity,
Not in vocabulary or verbosity.
Its efficacy sits in its succinct slenderness
Rather than a long-winded circuitous sentence
Or overblown rhetoric rendered by a populist leader
Falling and dithering like raindrops into choking drains.

It is the weightage of words, not the vocabulary
When hollowed gaps are filled with wholesome life
When meaningful librettos blossom into ripeness,
And ascend the ladder of immortality.

Childhood is a period of gestation. Such was Bushra’s. Parental mentoring swirled through her pliable mind, polishing it. Her father was an erudite man and cautiously selective in the books his children read. Bushra grew up with a romance for books, especially the English Classics. Growing up in Pakistan, where the language is Urdu, this was an anomaly, but it opened up the windows of her mind. She constantly honed her skills by taking up creative classes at NYU’s continuing education. Thus, she dug into her mind’s inner treasures, and turned to writing and publishing poetry and short stories.