A sunbeam, from the breast, from the dark cuckoo’s beak
A melodious song, a wake-up call the day’s to begin, an idyll’s
Waiting hour. No need looking what may be or may not.
An abysmal afternoon, a leapt up evening; a night of sorrow.
The present is an interlude, and many a news, and many a sights
Just vanish: filmed, stored to an un-recallable archive.
We leave what to whom and who then what they will do,
Sooner or later it will end, and they would do
What we have been doing: filling the days with trivial nothings.
Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
August 1,2013.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem