If she cries, it is love, if she
Is an exposition in multitude, her eye
If kindles the fire, it is love.
If she is to the meadows, recite a verse
Or on the faint lament of the string
Faint, it is love. It is love
If hiding means into the heart’s chamber
Worthy recline, her anger is love.
The rascal love plays on us all
If water has crossed over the fields
If it’s gentle rise drown your soul
And if you have lent over, the accumulate
Wisdom. It is love. It is love when you hear
The rooster in the forenoon vain,
Or the street you come through every day,
In the streams they wash, and mulberry tree.
It is love, that on her arrival,
River had swept the signs she hath made.
My friend Ayaz don’t make me talk,
More. My pen is split, isn’t it love?
Sadiqullah Khan
Gilgit
August 21,2015.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem