She cannot speak she is deaf and dumb,
Yet she is heard, an extempore orator,
I am puzzled and confused I cannot decide,
She is a creation or herself a creator.
I see a side pose of her lovely face,
One of her eyes in the evening star,
I never saw her beauty from the front,
A hand in my hand and the other on guitar,
She separates her hand and plays a tune,
The crescent then starts her charming dance,
I see this show every month in the nights,
The fourteenth night is the climax of romance,
The nude of the moon through excited eyes,
Enters the hearts and ignites a revolt,
Whatever may be laws, customs and taboos?
The birds in youth carelessly molt,
The bird is confined in a lovely cage,
What’s going out, all that, he departs,
He smiles like flowers and cries like clouds,
Until anticlimax of the moon starts,
And then he sees a moon less night,
In a dark night he can see the front pose,
Deaf and dumb, he can’t describe,
Regretting as to why he poked his nose!
Moon and the very many faces of moon seem to enchant you eternally! May I call you the great Bard of the Moon Akhtarji?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Phases of moon are so charming and pulling. The fascination expressed here itself is so wonderful to read and feel. Thanks for sharing Akhtar ji.