Weathered beauty, let me scoop
From your stones, carve on your rivers,
My ice-cold words, let by the warm breath,
Melt, by the sun-rays shine, in moon light bath.
My hands the edged pebbles in mud paste,
My feet feel the soft earth, textured wood.
My heart count winds, my sight see stars,
Visions dance before me, time goes back
Unself incarnate, my self taketh flight.
O the richness of my poverty, I like
The wretched holiness, my descent on raft.
-On the ancient mosque of Gircha, Gojal.
Sadiqullah Khan
Gilgit
November 22,2014.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful, beautiful. Rich in imagery. Quite spell-binding.