Tajalla Qureshi
She sweetly whispers,
O’ Nightingale,
I am in touch with a “Threadless Dale”,
weaving an unseen and unheard tale
more like a ring in another vale
She slightly weeps,
O’ Nightingale,
I am much aware of beats in breaths
naming the untold and unsaid hearth
to shawl the fragrance on earth
She softly weaves,
O’ Nightingale,
I am yet the muse of splashing wave
hovering my name altogether in an unseen cave
with no edge; however, the dazzling raves
She sensuously wins,
O’ Nightingale,
I am to heal the unveiled wounds
Heightening sometimes, my love makes a sound
Like a remedy to forget the bounds.
By Tajalla Qureshi
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