And all summer— all winter,
He grazed a flock of sheep,
Upon the fertile lands, they ran
Down into a valley, dark and deep;
He chased and took them back
And they again grazed,
And they did this for hours
Still, he was not praised;
He sweat a lot and never flaunted
At noon, he melts and got tan,
No one was about to praise
For he was just a pastoral man;
And one day, when the sheep ran
He never returned back
From the deep-down valley,
Neither he nor the sheep's pack;
The praised ones searched him
And found not even a grass petal,
Declaring him dead—
They finally praised him to settle;
To settle just for others' goodwill,
Mourning him in every house
They drummed him like metal.

When I will be cremated—
And my bones will be ground
Into a paste, If not married:
People will come and surround
For my body is heavy to be carried;
My house will turn into a market,
A market of lies and grief,
And on the outskirts of my village
They will take me—to a place of great relief,
But I will be burned fast for spillage;
Though all my sorrows will end
And will end the long awaiting of a friend.

Where to go and where to not?
Every place is burning my heart,
Honeycomb has become bitter
And the bees depart;
Landed on the gems and golds
As they look like honey
But neither they are sweet
Nor kind, only they shine sunny,
Bright and sunny—
Wages I have none but a heart
Rich of love and grace,
But none desires this kindness
For this identifies a poor face;
Now I don't want bees to return
For the honeycomb is dead,
Eagles have eaten it and the rest
Is saved for their children's bed.

If the god is true—
Why don't he fly me through the stars
And end these holy wars,
And why are they many?
When he is one,
When he is the only father to many a son,
When he is mine as well as thine—
Be his child and surrender,
Behold a day from the eyes of mine:
I see a man in peace
And another man watering chinars
Children playing again in the streets
And I am flying through the stars,
All the bloodshed come to cease
And finally has ended all the holy wars.

In the shade of the crescent moon,
A silvery-silken veil wears a face,
Celestial spirits run from the crematories
And gathered in one place;
The spirits died of treason
Unrolled their boxes of grief,
And wail at the end of the season;
They have been sleeping for years
Surely more than a hibernating bear,
They do not sound friendly,
As revengeful and rageful they appear;
But the holy light of Indian basil
Keeps them apart,
And so I light a lamp every day
And from my gate, the spirits depart.

Scented roses at bloom—
On the top of a green hill
Swaying all alone under the daystar,
And white pigeons roamed the city
On reaching the end of the war;
Handshakes and spies are buttered,
Toward the end of the day
Finally, the white flags fluttered;
After a long time—
The years of smoke and gunpowder
I can listen to the birds,
The winding trees — the wafting seas
And can finally smell the settling herds,
But for both of us, the time's over
In heavens, we will make our home—
Though on Earth, It was
Built and destroyed like a honeycomb.

Midnight, a donsy of gnomes
Appears in my garden,
Robed in bright red-brown tints
Wandering around like a warden,
Phrygian caps on their head,
Boots of birch bark that grows on a hill,
And a wide leather belt on the waist
Holding a knife, hammer, and drill—
The little dwarfs with
Wrinkled faces not because of age,
But for the grin and laugh
That they hold in their gaze,
Though no treasure I have,
Neither do I have an outstanding fate
Nor a glossy golden gate,
Still, they come and roam
Without any greed— without any hate.