With the eye mortgaged to Time,
Who should become
Jubilant seeing the mirror,
Who should write poems
With obsolete diction,
And who should be obliged
On the words of appreciation;
Where is the intellect,
Where should it be encamped,
When the tightening-cords
Of the world are slack.
How should in words
Contract the pain of spaces,
When no one is safe from the dying stars,
In the worn-out confinement of Time.
Becoming my helplessness,
Why should there remain my chances,
In the magic of my thoughts.
The evening roves homeless,
And the clouds do not have
Any abode in the sky;
The wave of breath
Is like a print on the water,
My presence endures me,
In the shadow of bygone dream.
Written by Naina Adil
Translated by Muhammad Shanazar
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem