Buffalo Poem by Abdul Wahab

We had a big black buffalo
We gave food or no we did not
It always put on fat on rainy days
But in front of it I used to play flute
Did it enjoy the tune?
Till date I do not know?
For him I changed my art
Like the development moves from one part
To another part of the world
And started writing poetry and read them out to him loud
But I wonder still if he knew the intricacies of a poem
But he used to shake his head
Like the horse of Robert Frost
In the middle of frozen lakes and dark woods
But I knew I did not do any mistakes
But poems are falling like downy flakes
On the soil of my soul
That developed cracks due to severe drought
As I have not received a single drop of rain
Winter after winter has been passed in coldness
Deep yellow becomes the foliage
Near the roots of the tree they are accumulated like hills of failure
A bustle sound I hear
But I wonder if the buffalo knew the craft of my sorrow
But blow of the wind
And the flow of the stream know
So my friend becomes the murmur
Though I lived together for long
Yet the buffalo could not be a close one
Like that of wind's sweep sound.



Buffalo

We had a big black buffalo
We gave food or no we did not
It always put on fat on rainy days
But in front of it I used to play flute
Did it enjoy the tune?
Till date I do not know?
For him I changed my art
Like the development moves from one part
To another part of the world
And started writing poetry and read them out to him loud
But I wonder still if he knew the intricacies of a poem
But he used to shake his head
Like the horse of Robert Frost
In the middle of frozen lakes and dark woods
But I knew I did not do any mistakes
But poems are falling like downy flakes
On the soil of my soul
That developed cracks due to severe drought
As I have not received a single drop of rain
Winter after winter has been passed in coldness
Deep yellow becomes the foliage
Near the roots of the tree they are accumulated like hills of failure
A bustle sound I hear
But I wonder if the buffalo knew the craft of my sorrow
But blow of the wind
And the flow of the stream know
So my friend becomes the murmur
Though I lived together for long
Yet the buffalo could not be a close one
Like that of wind's sweep sound.