The moss makes scent
The bark of tree is infected
Love produces the scent
The wood is cut to extract.
A rare shine in your eyes.
In sumptuous bouquets,
Wood leather and roses.
This indulgence
Is as infectious
As love itself.
Though
I have not discovered
Any path leading towards you.
Sadiqullah Khan
Peshawar
December 25,2012.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem