In the complex dance of love, timing can be a merciless dictator, wielding its power to transform the sweetest dreams into harrowing nightmares. Such is the tale of hearts entangled in the tumultuous currents of fate, where every moment seems to conspire against the blissful union of souls.
It can happen innocently, with a simple exchange of message igniting the flames of affection. Time is a cruel mistress, that can drag loving souls relentlessly towards an inevitable conclusion. Confessions hang heavy in the air, each syllable a testament to the depth of affection, yet shackled by the chains of circumstance. Hearts beat in unison, in a symphony of longing and desire till the cruel hands of fate deals its final blow.
Frustrating how love has no regard for the prior commitments and moral compasses of its victims. On one hand, it demands everything from its victims, while on the other, it warns against expecting or demanding anything in return. Burning in that heavenly fire, souls find relief in turning into ashes. Even though the end is foreseen the horrible destiny seems acceptable owing to the beautiful journey towards it.
Souls are ripped apart from opposing forces of duty and desire. Each passing day serves as a reminder of one's unwitting contribution to the other's anguish, a burden carried with a heavy heart. One is condemned to witness the others suffering from the sidelines, cursing the twisted threads of destiny that wove their fates together.
Love can make one despise oneself for causing such torment, for inflicting agony upon the one they wished to shower with happiness. Knowing that they are the reason for the other's suffering eats away at one's soul like a relentless rodent gnawing at the brain constantly. "I hate time," one can't help but lament.
ہر بار میرے سامنے آتی رہی ہو تُم
ہر بار تُم سے مِل کے بِچھڑتا رہا ہوں میں
تُم کون ہو یہ خود بھی نہیں جانتی ہو تُم
میں کون ہوں یہ خود بھی نہیں جانتا ہوں میں
تُم مُجھ کو جان کر ہی پڑی ہو عزاب میں
اور اِس طرح خود اپنی سزا بن گیا ہوں میں
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