The Immortal Princess

The duchess moon stands speechless,

It inclines its mighty head over the rivulet of my tears,

Beheading from my flesh the crown of memories,

The stars, I assume, sing high,

Her and my devastated folklore,

To the children of the sky,

And the comets, like flying lanterns,

Flutter their feathers ever so hard,

Knowing that even my forest has recently burned down.


Why can I not see wrinkles on the cloud’s face?

Why is the hair of the maiden night still white?

Why could no downpour reshape the sequinned night’s curves?


Is nature an inborn, immortal princess?

There are two women in the world,

One turned old in her prime youth,

Counting drop by drop, my dropping dreams,

And the other is still young,

After drinking from my veins, the anguish of my wounds.


~ Khwaja Musadiq | Edited by Afreen Zeb


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