Reading a 'pashto' poem, it occurs to me that
I don't need to meditate or pray.
This weather is too heavy on her tender heart.
She must be praying and me too,
For she is the prayer and I'm 'amen'.
If I'm just blessed with fire I could read to her passion of these words,
For in her denial I have found solace in these words
And in acceptance too I burn like these words.
'Pushto', she said 'is beautiful language'.
Like a Sufi in 'sema' I read her,
Flowing like a river which may never end,
As a dawn of winters chilling till the spines,
Like a whiff of perfume all around me
Carrying me away, deeper in night beyond horizons,
Where rivers have expanded and land and water becomes one.