urdu poetry

i walk down the garden paths
there is a city, builded by no hand
is there anybody there
skies they were ashen and sober
for truth, for love
over the river, on the hill
with her hair flaying wildly
out of me unworthy and unknown
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
earth travails
the old songs
come down at dawn from windless hills
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
some one complained to the master