Brink me back my lost years
My youth, O how you stand on the anvil
Leaving me, like a soul, from the statuesque
Physique. Like spirit evaporate from the pitcher.
Old wine, be my wiser self, bring my fancy
Empty thou art, alas. The drunken courage
My feet, how you forgot the steps.
From the love’s street, where unto
Much you sang of guillotine in rapture.
Tie not my hands, my head remains high
Your strength, upon my neck the sword.
Death, come - I welcome thee
What fears thou harbor, I have told them
My coffin on head, like a king’s crown.
Fate, you were the dirt of my palm
And now, what else in thy shallow pocket.
I have spent thee, O Time, be not proud
None of your riches, a saddened heart
My love like withered, myself like pelted
Pick your stones, are not the wounds enough.
Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabd
October 10,2013.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem