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By

 


Aadil Ghulam Bhat 

(Poet and Author)


The man had stolen himself.

And, finally, theft of the soul.

When among people, he wouldn't lie,

And foliage not yet laid, there drove

A selfish one to the yard,

And who gazed at the world.

However, in a rough manner, given that

He waited patiently until he revealed his true self.




A black mask to conceal his identity,

He wondered whether self-importance

Might resurface, to preserve its comfort,

By searching for something it had forgotten,

Yet we could not live without false notions.

He thought, 'If I were to sell my blooming trees,

My garden —the young buds and flowers,

Where houses are all hearts filled with love,.

I hadn't thought of them as loving birds.




I doubt if I was deceived for a while.

To uproot them, to ascend to heaven,

And leave the slope behind, hearts all bare,

Where the eye from heaven is no warmer

Than the moon. I'd hate to part with them.

I know if I was. Yet more, I'd hate to own

My trees, except as others hold theirs,

Or dismiss them for something beyond mere profit.'

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