Smoky grains, in this quiet corner,
Abundance has the flavor of nothingness,
O dark ceiling, lift up the spirit's desire,
While the chef cooks the fish in olive,
And flavored tea with aroma visit the sense,
Wet leaves are visible fallen on the lanes
Of blind endings, curving like boteh's bottom.
Yet the silk thread around the neck,
Yours is pashmina from the goat's torso.
My inner mirror has the muffled shape,
Drawn on its surface, sketched by a coal rock,
And the edges are scrubbed in white silver
Of a moth eaten paper, and seasoned as if
A wine cellars, who had been giving aroma,
Since long, imparting dreams and fantasy.
Her figure were like the molten wax near fire,
Is it, the way of speaking, O tenderness,
The beheading is a chess play on a board,
With no check mates, your horse fly,
The castles of clothed form, like a chained
Lion, know his worth, and a falcon
His sight, when his eye-blinder is removed.
This was no time, though to push for ideas,
Nor making impressions, nor throwing,
Corn-seeds, or a lamented look to wear,
None to know, you have a hidden treasure,
Great remonstrance, like a settled sea,
Who has seen the storms, and know in sure,
That nothing will happen, and the shores
Returned the usual way, to sleep and dream,
On the orange and red petals of fine fabric
Making things in the color of earth, shining,
In the color of moon, warm like in sun-shine.
Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
January 15,2015.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem