An Ode In The Night Of Thousand Years

Here in a lone moment of indolence,
I grab my pen, holding nothingness,
In my mind, to spare my inference,
Once again, with a lull willingness.

And my eyes beholding the night above,
Of thousand years, with same old love,

Wonder, and her ever untamed beauty,
As all drifter’s foregone had wandered,
The same old paths on earth, by duty,
Old and unchained, and bards had tendered,

Words of sadness, love, solace, wonder, joy,
Reverence and disdain by same old decoy.

And smiling odorous flowers with bees,
From the tiny windowpane of my room,
Of same old beauteous face, with breeze,
Of their gentle fume or buds which loom,

In every same, sweet old days of May,
As the same old sun, rises and sets every day.

And every year passes, other years to come,
With same old seasons, songs and charm,
But all these things now seem so tiresome,
Even my words and a mother’s love so warm,

And those birds in every same old days of spring,
Forever the same old melodies chant and bring.

Here I am a man of thousand years with same,
Old memories around me and nothing newer,
From time’s eve. Then what things yet tame,
Men’s dream and willingness to live with power?

What’s new! What words has yet left to be said,
What’s newer, by which can my thoughts be led?

by Mirza Beg

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