MS (25-11-1960 / Pakistan)


Often I flip back the pages,
Of the bulky book of time,
Revision rakes afresh,
The dormant memories,
Pleases or makes me sad,
Pangs begin bubbling,
Pleasures spring up again,
As subterranean channels,
Find out from fountains,
Their way when dug deep,
Or blocking ooze is removed.

Who knew a cheerful lass,
Walking with frolic gait,
All alone in the deep forest,
Offering ripe sweet berries,
Plucked with the soft hands,
Streaked, stippled, scratched,
Spotted with the dew of blood,
And who clang on listening,
To the fluttering birds in the trees,
The stirring rabbits in the bushes,
Would be my love my mistress,
And break the heart in twain,
The waves of time would drive
Us apart never to see again.

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