~~
Hands which have been cleaning hard edged stones since born
grew bruising on the palate,
after that mind grew the hardest,
compact

As the sediments on pressure, temperature
in course of time, a buried treasures   
even a drop of rain never drops on this soil,
a ****** barren field,
where growing crops is beyond dreams

If her soft hand ever touch that stony hands
he could not sense, but she can
that mind never write a poetry as for her soft mind's desire,
as the rain drops on the chest of desert,
where certainly the flowers bloom, the lonely birds sing

His hands will rise with fire harp
with voices of revolutionary poetry,
heart flows with that tunes, the melody of strangers quite ambiguous to her,
where she can't play known instruments ever

The hands of hammer of the spirit of the day and night
his love is burning fire of sand that tempest in desert,
That solid gold is made with fire
where the strings of love span for eternity
~~

@ Musfiq us shaleheen