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Reverie

I sit alone and fancy creating a beloved for myself;
Sometimes I paint her eyes black, sometimes I kiss her lips.

I sit here planting beads of light in the string of sorrow;
Joy still flows from the amphora of colors into my cupped hands.

I hail your generous hands – how wise your disposal!
I am a single drop, but harbor oceans in my heart.

You took gold, power, and throne, and gave me beauty, sight and thought;
You drowned hunger and thirst in the red storm of elation.

A sorrow, not yet meted, kept hiding somewhere in the dark;
It slowly crept up to my heart like a serpent on the prowl.

I am happy with your will, o lord, of gem and gold!
Sorrow? I’m even ready for death and would willingly embrace it,

Were it not for the firefly of joy you’ve blessed me with,
Allowing me to light up my dreams in this dark manor.

People say, ‘There, Ghani grows old; consumed by his passions’
While I sit and arrange narcissi in the beloved’s hair.

Death, go somewhere, get lost! I’m not done as yet –
Joy still flows from the amphora of colors into my cupped hands.


Translated from Pashto by Taimur Khan

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