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Poem
Don't ask the lady on the train,
of where she plans to go,
for where did her land turn into to sand,
you and I will never know.
Where flies the bird unknowingly,
with voices in our heart,
the moment dies and away she flies,
true to the mortal art.
 
Don't ask the lady of the chain
that we on earth do make,
for if she speaks with her tear bond cheeks,
it shall your pen and spirit break.
We stay to find the purpose not
nor for the unknown muse,
we poise our mind and nothing find,
the pattern then refuse.
 
Don't ask the lady of the lane
on which her sons do tread,
can distance drown the heavens town,
where we eat we make our bed.
The colour of the soul we wear,
a notion is the skin,
a part we seed and another bread,
only one can we back win.
 
Don't ask the lady of her pain,
for we are yet too young,
for time does mold the firmest hold
and petrifies the tongue.
An exit of the dreaming eye,
the advent of sane sight,
the steps you cast a moment last,
before silenced is the light.
 
Don't ask the lady on the train,
as we shall soon arrive,
but she will stay and for us pray,
for we are still alive.
The ideal changes with the form,
the crossing of the sigh,
while grief remains with all its pains,
below the common sky.
 
 
Don't ask the lady to explain
how can the being be whole,
beneath the sun we see no one,
just a shadow of the soul;
the moon then comes and all is clear,
her light does through you shine,
a single being all faces freeing,
we the shadows of design.
 
Don't ask the lady of the strain,
that time has left on her,
she will not try, but she will lie,
tell of the smiles that never were.
There is a place we keep with us,
the oasis of our bliss,
our service purge and with it merge,
the hurtful world dismiss.
 
Don't ask the lady of the gain,
that she gains from finding home,
there are faces lost at pleasures cost,
where the tears do turn to foam.
A torrent upon the growing shore
and within it a dream,
while we do long for the drowning song,
all hope turns into steam.
 
R.N.Khan, © 2014
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