Like the loved await their love,
She watches all evening the seas and abroad,
Hoping a ship that brings him back alive,
The least she expect from a war,
Where more husbands and sons fight for a land,
But only a few return to their blood.
Sorrows of a lady on her tears,
And prayers for her love shining on cloths.
Days spent on letters she wrote,
Hoping their bed to fill with love again,
And counting days thereon,
Where hours are longer than weeks and more.
But no summer in the past shall return,
And not a dropp of happiness be left,
Why then they announce the letter they brought?
As they came riding back grimly with him,
But not the same man who can love her anymore,
But just a corpse with a face similar to her love.
She may throw a hand full of mud,
But will stand all alone in the evening red,
Waiting her love, to take her to her bed.
©Anees Rahman
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem