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urdu poetry

cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
quand, plein de l'amour chaud et désireux
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
à travers He va
vous êtes beau et fané
comme bougie blanche
je ne brûle aucun encens
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
fleurs des bébés
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
je tiens votre coeur

 



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