MISS SEÑORITA

Señorita! I wish to hold your Hinnā’ hands at a moment
Under the pleasant shafts of Spring’s sunshine,
And to sing you the Ghazals of Rusul Mir,
In the metrical-voice of blèssed Dawud.

The stroll through the garden of Tulips with you,
In the month of bulbous April,
Where lilacs be but our instruments of music,
Sparrows chirping, the sweet melody.

Where nightingales warbling will serve my aorta with
More velocity, with the flowers’ nectar, the jaunt shall
Percolate the pure jell into an artery of ‘y’ montex pen;
I used to carry within my satchel of soldier fustian
When my thoughts and sights were unmixed.

Things unknown to me, welded in stillness still,
Why? My family bore no one in the line to torture.
Frankincense! Your perfume surely makes me feel
That I’m a singer, who cannot sing nor can dance,
Could write only ballads of merry
And songs of love in void vacuum.

O Nightingale of City Srinagar! I pine once more to
Listen to your passerine voice: blèssed by the cords
Of a demoiselle, roving in the cinnamon alleys
Of the Hazratbal to aid the unburnished,
In a spectacular hyacinth bloom.
For you’re the Kāfūr, the sublime poetry, Miss Señorita.