Your love for this sun-beaten race,
So swaddled in their blues,
In finest white and billowed bronze,
In pride of swift Pushtun,
Is far too much for man 'less he,
'Less he be truly God.
For you are hope in arid land,
Sweet drink in dusty fog.

The clouds stall at the withered scene,
Such aching loneliness in death:
A husk erect in verdant seas,
Still hung but standing on its brittle roots,
Like driftwood scorched amidst a churning swell,
Like hellish flames upon a boat,
Yet surely in its timely fell,
Will many little ones find life.

And so they have.

Behemoth of the timeless dream,
Why do I see see you clear on shores of cyclic Months?
What haunted you to shatter dearest dreams?
You encroach on concrete time, amiss,
Bearing hues before the blandest reeds,
Their seconds swaying ever same,
Uniform beneath your fragile might,
What horror draws you to the realised,
That devours very possibilities you stand to hold at once,
No...
You wish to shatter time.