@ A Journey Westward Ii Poem by Sadiqullah Khan

II At Home

And oft I plodded, on the narrowed paths
Worn by the lonesome men, and women
Carrying big reels of fodder, greener
Fresher than a dews’ respite. Or when
Cold water- oft carried in canes, a rounded
Pitcher on the head so damp. Like antelopes
Move: no one knows if a feather in air
A love might think, (lest the water fall,
Upon the braids of hair, between the –rocks
Of the bosoms) . So much worn the paths to home
A valley like green, sun rays kissing
The blades of grass, and hoppers fly, greener
In the temperate months, be June and July.
The low walls, of mud molten, by rains
So rounded that a jump across, and down flows
Earth is a habitation, and generously accords
The waters flow, between bushes and weeds
It breeds flowers, it breeds fruits
From its own desire, and the sun rays.

A bridge of stone or a broken log
Jump this or that way, the day’s tired tread
At last is the end, at last smoke is seen
My door is open, betwixt the twilight
The dog is stretching having woken up
Rubbing his eyes for nothing else
We would share a banquet, warm bread
And to the night’s maze of stars, counting
And the mother’s stern look, saying
‘He who counts the stars would grow warts
On fingers’-they were only to be seen:
And we were told the story of seven stars
A frail lady by her bed, with her dog
Spinning thread.