I dream these days, decapitated limbs
My right hand, fleeced, am waiting
I am sick of death's perditions
History traveled through a Tartar's sword,
Desolate river beds, that once burned
The hoofs of horses, are much scantier.
Devoid, and waters have no fertile mineral.
My thoughts end in odd lines,
Lately I wished to rid myself of the complexity;
Vain and gaining more freedom of a bird's flight.
Humbled by the accumulated wealth
Of knowledge. I had been skating a thin layer
Of ice, on warm deep ponds and raucous glaciers
Burying peaks. This again ends on seventh line.
Sadiqullah Khan
Peshawar
April 5,2014.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem