I had been looking, in the steamiest of the corners, <br />The multicolored glass windows. Some shapes of octagon. <br />In mud walls. Pulling a ram into the dusty street. There were three, <br />Youths. That was the shanzelize of the village. Their knees were <br />Rubbing against the mud; and like a camel would sit, before it gets up. <br />A white dog was following us. A hallow of a shadow wanting to hide, <br />From the moon that was just on tenth of the month. The wall was standing. <br />In the air. The shop, lit by a lantern was selling candies. This was neither good, <br />Nor bad. It was three thousand years ago. And it is now. They were grown. <br />Learned. Contented. With honest smiles. It is said, 'They do not possess evil eye' <br />The earth and the skies have always been generous. This youthful innocence, Buddha said, <br />Had been his vision of nibhana. He had a vision of himself in a lap under a tree. <br />The shape of the octagon is setting into some illusions. Moving like a celestial alien object. <br />On a magician's finger. When visited by a lotus, can you guess what it would add? <br />It was moving and revolving. There are more dreams to come. <br /> <br />On a visit to village Korai, Dera Ismail Khan; late in the evening. <br /> <br />Sadiqullah Khan <br />Peshawar <br />November 3,2012<br /><br />Sadiqullah Khan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/some-shapes-of-octagon-i/
