THE TREE

(A Flying Shawl of Sand)

Air doesn’t have moist but fire,
The noon flies blazing burning in the boundless
Dust of dunes stretched on the yellow floor of sand,
To the farthest end,
Where the sky and the earth join,
No tree exists alive,
Skeletons of the dried berries sunk into
Horror of death,
Though they are deformed yet stand erect
Composing features of bygone ages,
And among them is turmoil,
There is a twisting fiery chain of the air,
And in between the wraps of flying burning sand,
Thirst of the deer is fading away,
I am engrossed in seeing the spectacle slithering
A little silky curtain from the dusty window
Of my carriage.

Till yesterday the dry skeletons of berries
Seemed to my urban friends
Like excellent pieces of some senior sculptor,
But now,
On the headless skeletons,
In the places of green leaves, branches and tassels,
Vultures are starting to grow.

Ayub Khawar