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urdu poetry

dentro de este sepulcro humilde un conqueror miente
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
sueño dulce en sus sepulcros humildes
fuera del mar chispeante
encima del sur en la rotura del día
pienso a menudo en la ciudad hermosa
ponemos
él habla no bien
ayer por la noche la Luna Llena puso un paño del blanco
las montañas son gente silenciosa
mire detrás con los ojos longing y sepa que seguiré

 



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