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urdu poetry

war sie nicht für diesen einzigartigen Geruch
unter dem Erntemond
den brennenden Gedanken kleiden
ich sah die Wolken unter den Hügeln
ich schleuderte meine Seele zur Luft wie einem Falkefliegen
warum Sie immer der dort shivering Standplatz tun Sie
plötzlich aus den dunklen und belaubten Weisen heraus
gegen die grüne Flamme des Weißdorn-Baums
das Kind, das weg Blatt nach Blatt warf
meine Seele geht in den gorgeous Sachen plattiert

 



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