Yet this all remains obscure
Sandy beauty of curvaceous line
Peaked tops, rubbed a roughness
Your chin pops up for a teeth-bite,
Your eyes the naughtiness of cat -
Inside the coziness of stone lined doors,
Flowers wither to the smoky aroma
Narrow lanes taper down to warmth
An embrace might be the night's awaited
Cold. Who shall see these willows again
Not me at least, whoever, blessed
In the aloft highness and majestic presence.
Sadiqullah Khan
Gilgit
October 17,2014.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem