Comments about Mansoor Nazeer
Boy Reading A Book
Somewhere in a vast, new land he lets again his pony stand,
Tired, indeed, but not broken, and drinks of the dying summer’s wind
As it rough-lifts his dusty hair,
And shuts his eyes, traveled and pale, to every direction.
Not houses, not men, nor even beasts surround him
And no small cabin he finds
Of clay and wattles made.
Beneath the yellowing tree, of bird and nest long free,
He collects himself, away from haste,
To judge anew his gain and waste;
The tree, the animal, the man – inhabitants of the thirsty plain.
Where does he come from? And where ...