The Balloon Man

I painted him as a subject in the art class
a man holding bubbling colors
cheerful children all around;
I see him today on the streets
only to know how I failed imagining the reality
four strings tied to his fingers
struggling to escape its fate,
seams of shirt torn, shoes never worn
none around but a child of his own
hungry and lame, stretching his arm
to survive one more day and
“Life isn’t easy”, the onlookers say.
How beautiful the world would have been
if only the balloon man in my paintings was not a dream.

© Nazneen Kachwala

The Season of Love

Like the confluence of music and words creates a song
you took a small place in my heart
and made it your home
as a squirrel hides its nuts for the winter
I kept this secret untold
then the spring came, the flowers bloomed
and the breeze spread the scent of my love for you.

© Nazneen Kachwala


She ventured canopies
once out of sight
woods untrodden
lands forbidden
drank from the springs of delight;

while on a voyage
across the sea
her vessel was caught
in a tumultuous squall;

she’s now stuck in a whirlpool
that will neither drown her
nor will fetch the shore.

© Nazneen Kachwala – 16.01.2019


If you tear my flesh
and dive into my blood
passing through every cell
breaking into every atom
you’ll reach a divine stream of nothingness
the same existing in all the hills, stones, seas,
in the silence
when the night meets the day
caressing it with it’s breezy fingers
and that in the warmth of my lover’s breath;
nothingness that surfaces
in different forms – unknown, unusual
that makes you, and everything;
Nothingness –
which is true,
which will stay.

© Nazneen Kachwala


They are all there
welcoming the sun
wading through the clouds,
each clinging to one of its rays
like gems sparkling against the blue
appearing like a colorful hijab
my mother wears to cover her head,
the strings for a day
taking control of the sky
collectively trying to pull down the heavens
to end the earth’s grief,
the chirping creatures sacrificed –
a part of the game.
The runners below casting a continuous spell
for the links to break,
then pacing with winds
riding their witch brooms
to secure the fallen jewels.
The dusk brings along
shooting stars across the horizon
streams of alcohol flowing
in an otherwise dry land
gulping sugars and snacks
folk dancing on the new track;
tired with the day’s fiesta
the vastness returns to her old black stoll
as my mother does at the end of the day.

© Nazneen Kachwala


She was the lamp
lighting a room
turned into wildfire
by the wind,
she was the wind
giving music to the flute
turned into tempest
by the rain,
she was the rain
with a rainbow
turned into lightning
against the grey,
she was an ocean of desires
flanked by love
now parched.

© Nazneen Kachwala