Invisibles Poem by Akhtar Jawad

In a jet white dress on a palanquin,
Leaving behind my daughters and granddaughters,
On the shoulders of my son and grandson,
And my son-in-laws, I am going back to my forefathers,

The clay that fed me is calling back,
With a number of bills payable by the debtor,
Here is my flush, here are my bones, details of my debt?
I see my mother and father waiting on the elevator,

My son and my grandson handed over the clay to the clay,
Nobody knows death is nothing but a separation,
My separated soul is on the elevator in the same old arms,
Sweethearts! Don't cry I smell a salvation rose!

While dying the Angels handed over a white paper to me,
All my good deeds were written with visible ink,
But what is written overleaf? Somehow I gathered courage,
Turned the paper, if anything was written, it was in invisible ink!

Invisible soul invisible master, invisible gardens and hell,
Let the elevator lift one to the height one deserves,
It's height of a man that determines visibility of the real eyes,
Could man open the real eyes whole life he preserves!