On Seventh Line Poem by Sadiqullah Khan

I dream these days, decapitated limbs
My right hand, fleeced, am waiting
I am sick of death's perditions
History traveled through a Tartar's sword,
Desolate river beds, that once burned
The hoofs of horses, are much scantier.
Devoid, and waters have no fertile mineral.

My thoughts end in odd lines,
Lately I wished to rid myself of the complexity;
Vain and gaining more freedom of a bird's flight.
Humbled by the accumulated wealth
Of knowledge. I had been skating a thin layer
Of ice, on warm deep ponds and raucous glaciers
Burying peaks. This again ends on seventh line.

Sadiqullah Khan
Peshawar
April 5,2014.