Your description puts
an end to all narration.
Your precious name becomes
the seal of my lips.

My loaf of bread stays
dry like the watermill,
Parched like my tongue
inside my mouth.

The physician failed to catch
the ailment within.
The tongue was silent,
the pulse even more so.

The furnace of the sky
was short of firewood.
To bake my bread it
stokes itself with my desire.

Engrossed such in praising
your dark eyes,
The tongue in my mouth has
turned a kohl stick.

The world’s hunting ground
still holds a promise for me.
Searching for a prey,
my bow might hunt itself.

Scattered around the millstone
are my white strands.
Grains to the sky’s revolving mill
are my bones.

– Ghani Kashmiri

translated by Mufti Mudasir Farooqi & Nusrat Bazaz