A GREEN PRIDE HAS NO AMBITION NOW
Walk with me, till moon rises
on the griefs of the dark,
and the tongue tastes the pain of centuries.
On the erected dome
when the golden leaves start a flame
which throws up an image of a prophet.
My nightingale was giving a call
of a very sad tune, on the death of peacocks –
but for the poisoned feed, they were dancing.
A green pride has no ambition now,
roses were wilting.
Fever was rising in the roots.
Do not give it to me, my award.
Could I have shut up like a fame
when my house was being ransacked?