Once, I was playing with a sand,
A spade in my hand,
Yonder on the ghat of Jhelum.

The silence of the Jhelum water,
And the music of a sand,
Did nudge me to compose
Some lines over the land.

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While composing, I recite the lines,
Before my comrade: footed as a lamb.

His narrative in blubber: “The sound
Of the silent water,
And the music of the sand,
Have chosen you for the voice,
Over the compound
Of a bruised-land; Cashmere.

"I am bleeding," Paradise mutters

Voice! Voice, in metres for the home.
You should spend your sessions
Of youth and power, energy and velocity
Under the umbrage of Oxbridge.

There the sounds dost beat as the
Rhythmic cadence of the Thame.

Abide, for now, substitute literature;
An English Literature,
Run to the college,
Open the lockers of the library,
Situated at a corner of the Cafétéria.

Silent and withdrawn: the hermit-station;
Of peace and prosperity and esoteric truth.

Direct to the valley of English poets.
Hold the pen in your hand.

Body of man who jumped into Jhelum River last month recovered

Afterwards, sing the songs in chorus;
Songs on the Jhelum, songs on the sand,
Only, if you have the pen platinum in your hand”.

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