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Abdul Wahab


>>>>An Unfortunate Poet


You and the adroitly attired new sun
Waiting on the last page of your letter wringing
To get moisture in the morning
My desire peeps in daily and remains dry
When your conceit changes dirty dress
Still I am your client in your autumnal luxurious market
And at high price your farce I buy
The burning flute of bamboo of June- July is not adequate
Yet the smoke of burning tune strikes the nostrils
Of this unfortunate poet.

Submitted: Thursday, January 30, 2014
Edited: Friday, January 31, 2014

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