How could I describe you?
Will it be easy to do!
Should I dress in the cloth of sculptor?
Hold my chisel and engrave a miniature?
Should I pretend to be an artist to scribble
And manage to draw your picture?
Sorry!
I am not a sculptor,
Neither an artist, nor a writer
Had God endowed me
the gift of writing skills,
I would have skilfully peeled out
The shell of letters,
and disseminated pearls
Similar to what your lips contain,
I would have molded the language,
Spoken out the letters,
Stirred the expressions,
Stimulated the puns,
and voiced you out a flesh and blood poem
To escort me in my ups and downs,
To recite you a sacred version
Along my daily prayers!
I will try, in words,
To return the good gesture,
But obsessed by the fear of failure,
Yes, a lot of motives have indeed
Combined into one desire,
The desire to have described you
And live with you, in you,
But, again, I am afraid
Yes, afraid my ink will dry up!
Dare I to count your countless graces:
She is unrivalled in beauty,
Her face as bright as the moon,
Her teeth are glittering like snow,
Her smile looks like the early morning dew,
Her eye- brows, well-set, half - crescent,
Her cheeks as pink as rose,
Her pose defeats the priest's pose.
Black - haired
Brown-skinned,
Ball- like eyes
Behold! the arresting bosom
Make not only me,
But, by common consent, would say,
She is the perfect piece of creation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem