Thursday, March 20, 2014

When the birds come back,

When the birds come back,
 I remember your black eyed.
When the rain comes down,
I ask, perhaps a refuge to find
When the wind rustles rapidly,
I got shock in my mind
At each cracking on my door my heart did throb
As a faint nestling looks for a glimpse of hope   
Perhaps you are here or there
But I am closely to your chant adhere
At any breeze I inhale, I swear by God
You are the lost figure of my dream
You are my night and my dawn
You are the spring everywhere
You are the chant over all outstretched fields.
The natural pastures that never were harvested
A feminine bosom of nature forever is splendid  
The wing of smart pigeon brought me a letter:
It contains a verse never can be spotted
A verse from a novel of lovers was quoted
Neither Sindbad had it, nor any sailor noted.       
What is to call you then my spring?
A malady, yet compassion, or the figure of the sleep
Which journey or flight you ask to soar?
Which foot was trodden over our sandy shore?
I am here with you as the vein to bone.
Don’t you know me?
I know you well
I know you well
You are my unforgettable pain.
You are my land and my seashore
Are you snobbish because you are rich and I am just poor?
*****    ******     ****
As the unstopping hands of O'clock
As a rain,…as a wind… as a mystery joke
What does it mean you give me out of your book?
Never shall I smoke, if the desert still filled up with smoke
You are the never closed book of my journey to read
What other than this sincerity, do you need?
Indeed, I remember you with each drop of my sweat.
Yes, I remember you with each throb of my heart.
 Your gracious figure, your charming voice yet I repeat
I do repeat your name to the distant whitish clouds
I do repeat your name to the adjacent lovely mounds
With water sound, with the murmuring of a soft breeze
I repeat, but the echo does not give any fact of ease.
What morrow does restrain us not to giving back?
Is it the furnace of life or our given lack?
Beside me, there is honour and infatuated charm
Beside you, there is plowed hospitable farm
Roses and plentifully yards of grape vines will tell
A door never keeps you surrender to the tone of hell.
Keep away from hearsays and the ravaged news.
Here I am, sat bashfully crying near thy ruins
What is to call! The echo advises me not to return.
To ask about our little departed youth, I would come again
Perhaps I come once time against the law of the flattering truth
To know the reason beyond of this unsettled occasion
Then I would mention, in fact I would mention
I would ask the sun, I would ask the passers
I shall ride the horse that is going faster.
Devotedly to ask the child who is bashful to see the light
And when his cheek blushes, the sun will shine at night.