Poems by Ishfaq Saahil

Ishfaq Saahil
 
Ishfaq Saahil, is from Larnoo,Kokernag,
State:Jammu and Kashmir. Country:India
He was born on 10/02/1991.He is B.A, B. ed.Currently doing his masters degree in English.
 
 
Death of a Caterpillar
 
Half his life is gone
On this half holed leaf
His I-shaped body has shrunken
Perhaps, it is fever!
And i am sure
That dose has taken his breath, half
For his more slow steps are more slowed
Neither, i know, could decorate any leaf anymore
Of this my Orchard
Nor could he beautify
Any flowers anymore
And no more can he live –
The victim of syringed dose
And if it was the only specie
Of his kind, unknown!
Have seen last night here
The beetles and butterflies
And bees were over there singing,
His but predicts other deaths
Or else, they live!
 
 
 
The Song
 
Come and i shall lull you to sleep,
Come and i shall lull you to sleep
Let you dream of fairies’ heap
Come and i shall lull you to sleep
 
Let thou ears listen my love
In Nightingale’s music and words of Dove
May God destroy all evil deep!
Come and i shall lull you to sleep
 
May God bud in April rose
Cheers for you and no sorrows,
Good you sow and good you reap!
Come and i shall lull you to sleep
 
Your Gooo is peace, your gabbling is chant
Don’t be afraid of owl’s rant
Heal, O, baby! my every wound deep
Come and i shall lull you to sleep.
 
 
 
But!
 
In a new beginning spring
A little pretty boy, with empty shoulders
Through the street ran.
The Sun was rising
Through mountains and hills,
The doors were almost open,
The beams were sketching the trees on land.
 
O, listen! O, innocent child,
Was someone calling.
Don’t you know the green hills
And pastures and meadows green,
Nothing is left in all this:
You read and write and recite, one by one
And do you know!
There is freedom of all that boring things,
No, how could you
And ignore the work of fathers
And do the prestiges lost
You don’t know, there is nothing
In all this, you want to do,
And there are herds to manage
And sheep and horse, Candy.
Don’t you know that?
 
If there were books and tales
Of fairies, and stories and poems to sing
As through the broken panes of school
Are heard, and ringing bells
In a balcony;seven and eight a day,
Father, Father!
 
Boring things, my boy, boring things
There is nothing as good as Sheeping
And melodies of birds in the hills
And cold breezes and raining nights,
All is fun in heavy forests: when groves sing,
The winds pass by, in mid sun of a day,
When there is summer in hills.
 
And if there were pallets
To colour the hollow sketches
Of Lions, Tigers and Bears
And Parrot
And crayons of more colours
And a nice Satchel in my shoulders,
Father, Father!
 
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