She talks in beauty, like a song,
With cleansing dust, and flares of ice.
The sweetness of ecstatic rhymes,
All are collected in her voice.
Mind treasured with such thoughtful trees,
Like someone lost her way in wood.
The vox that hymns like music notes,
A silence that’s less understood.
Who cares from where these echoes come?
From ancient bells of shores of Nile.
Her eyes are deeper than these waves,
Storms calm down with her single smile.
O’ Lord! Play once the harp of love,
My garden seeks the chirping birds.
O’ Lord! If once you bless my ears,
Few of her whispers and the words.
(Nayyar Afaq / Autumn Green)
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