Listen to yee’, I confront them, O’ Lord
Still my generosity never selected them, O’ Lord

Their narrow-mindedness, clung to their souls
There I could have strived them, O’ Lord

The glory in nature, with red wet frets
With that erosion, couldn’t sigh them, O’ Lord

Mirages and calamities passed by them
I could’ve deeply warned them, O’ Lord

The sudden thoughts, that twirled around them
Oh shitt!, that evils had ruined them, O’ Lord

The play of my heart, was just their pleasure
To show my feelings, couldn’t pierce it, O’ Lord

Pulwama hosts Mehfil-e-Mushaira in Sufi poet Soch Kral's memory

My all dismays shall be buried with me
In that urge, Will our memories survive? O’ Lord

Tears in their eyes, like shining gems
My grave-soil, shan’t be oozed with them, O’ Lord

They put fingers in ears, as my heart cries
After my burial, their cry, should I listen? O’ Lord

After death, Should I find my gravestone blank?
As their red roses, on my funeral, of no use, O’ Lord

Editor's Note

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