Sadiqullah Khan

My Fingers Burn

Time to leave, gather, the caravan moves,
Not in this city, in the fold of arms, embrace.
The view is where the tavern is, so is desire
Of the heart. Like an autumn’s eve, the self devoid;
Season of spring, fragrant flower, and colors are you.
These lonely streets, where my eyes carried, your image
A stranger’s abode, dust of feet, is the treasured home.
We were happy, had we been in a count, in annals,
Had we hosted, but just once, the angel of death.
Grace so descended on yourself, statuesque!
On your footsteps, I grew ambrosia, freesia and Jasmine;
Far, tall, wide and distant, is this you, or a reflection,
Such delusions I espouse, such illusions of an oasis.
My wish to weave pearls of beauty, O praise,
Be a word other than, any human ever disposed.
An art, yet not discovered, a song not sung,
A soul so nourished, a beauty not ever seen.
I hold my palms to my eyes, my fingers burn,
Hath anyone bent the fate, moved the earth and,
Brought down the stars. Aflame are the imaginations,
This night. A cup more, red roses, red wine more.

Submitted: Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Edited: Wednesday, June 19, 2013
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Poet's Notes about The Poem

Sadiqullah Khan
May 30,2013.

Minumina: by Jose A. Olivares, audiovisual music

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