Again and again I am born in poems

Again and again
I am born in poems

With the hands of waves
The sea
Tries to touch
The blue sky.
A sword of lightning
shines on a mountain.
The black cloud
calls peacock feathers
In the hands of tree
Flowers spread fragrance.

Again and again
I am born in poems
The night adorns her own fingers
With the ring of a thousand stars.

The morning sun
With its red ink
Writes slogans
On the city walls.

The street turns into a torch
And comes out on the road
Every raised hand is a procession.

Again and again
I am born in poems
In the empty courtyard of my heart
When I hear
The poems of dry leaves
I keep those poems
In my diary.

Again and again
I am born in poems.

From ‘Pencil aur doosri nazmein’