Poem

Before that feathered filled cushion I hit

A snake in the disguise of an old fox’s wit

White washed the walls of my glass hut

And into pieces the verses old it cut

A stick at my discomfort that was at disposal

Had but chocked once flexible vocal 

And on the carpet of my voluminous ecstasy

The words, verses, Shrukhs and Vakhs went missing

And a few new poems in my goblet were drinking

Among the waves of my salt what sweet wish!

My eyes, the doors of heaven had prepared a new dish.

Dr. Mushtaque B Barq