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urdu poetry

weich weinend
irgendwo las ich eine merkwürdige, alte, rostige Geschichte
Blüten der Babys
Sie sind schön und verblassen
melancholische Tage sind gekommen
Freund, dessen Lächeln gekommen ist zu sein
ich erwarte Sie
schreckliche Wahrheiten diese sind
als Meer-Winde unsere Solitudes durchbohrten
das traurigste des Jahres
weich als das Bett in der Masse
unter einem ausgebreiteten Kastaniebaum

 



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