BLUE LINES
In burning bosom, I carried this book, and, lo!
It is delivered,
At last, to silverfish.
I dug through hills and led the quenching gush
to garden gate,
just there it disappeared.
My throbbing ocean rose in a mighty wave
to kiss the moon,
and ended in a lull.
The tongue tarried and held a bit too long
the word that fell
a prey to the gusty day.
From every window of my cold abode
I hear a moan
An echo of my own?
-
Translated from my original Kashmiri.