Like the rough skin
Of a tree trunk,
A face of autumn,
Two eyes
like white papers
In a deep well
With water of light lost,
Like a pale plate of marble
Like two candles
about to be blown out,
I miss them so much
On the tin stove
tea prepared with tulsi leaves
The sweet smell
of ghee-jaggery-roti
Arrives in my room
And torments me.
From ‘Maanind’
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Baidar Bakht:: Translator of Urdu Poetry par excellence
BAIDAR BAKHT is Adjunct Professor of Civil Engineering at the Universities of Toronto and Manitoba, Canada. He translat...
-
My daughter Little dear daughter Lights a pencil With a sharpener. The sky of the white paper Begins to be filled with light. The black bird...
-
BAIDAR BAKHT is Adjunct Professor of Civil Engineering at the Universities of Toronto and Manitoba, Canada. He translat... -
A dalit poet Leaves several things behind: A paper dripping wet with blood, A black sun On the night’s head, A river of blood, A lantern of...
No comments:
Post a Comment