“They called them messiahs of the broken birds—healers who could mend any wounded soul except their own.” A deeply touching poem about the unsung heroes who dedicate their lives to healing others—the counselors, caregivers, and compassionate souls who mend broken spirits only to face the inevitable loneliness when those they’ve helped move on.
Some said they came down from the grey hills,
with kind and smiling eyes and no other skills
Others called them children of the silent lake,
with a goodness so genuine and not at all fake
They nursed the ugly wounds and gaping holes,
their whispers, brought back to life, dead souls
Maybe there was old magic, lining their words,
they were truly the messiahs of the broken birds
They were no shamans, no charm but simple love,
broken themselves, more than a wounded dove
They shared with us only one common bond,
they cared for us with love and even beyond
No other mantra, hope was their one message,
optimism, the only ticket, to secure the passage
Life, as they saw, was unending ups and downs,
kindness, the only way to tread the grounds
They were prophets indeed, but prophets of loss,
their heart were all soft, covered in green moss
Their legacy was loneliness, night and day,
for in the end, their birds always flew away
Shehryar khawar 