Robin once sat on throne of death
With thorn hurting his breast
Red was he but by his own self
Red was the Rose undressed
This union made a bee stops by
He wondered what it may
If red was Rose because of blood
Why thorn was looking gray
The queen of wit was crossing then
She cleared all his doubts
Look! Child this Robin has his way
Of own, and sits upon a sprout
It seems as though that Rose did him
But guessing forges doubts
Robin is surely bird of Lord
And hold his redness since
The day of old insane
When darkest grew the sin and Man
Was barbarically slain
The somberness that sprouts from bird
Is not a work of spot?
He took this job on his own soul
And drank from pointed pot
Now! Take this very simple thing
That barb did does his task
His God was Rose and only rose
In favor and in mask
We all do have our jobs sort out
We all are here for reason
Like Robin sat so poised and sure
Our souls must know no prison

by Gulam Abbas Hashmi

Other poems of HASHMI (38)

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