To you it’s the cold of the night br The thought fox, sniffing, coming and going br Sets neat prints on the snow, starless, the clock br Ticks. For me it’s the tenth muse, jagged br Be-printed, colored, a wild snowstorm, a sleepless br Night. A steed with wings, wearing ‘Her’ face. br It’s a Jaguar, a hawk, that comes out br A walk, a chest holding wearisome apparel. br It is magic, a Cirencester square br A nomad’s flute, a blood bath, a pond of irises br A contained universe in the vault of head br Ocean of holy water contained in heart. br br A human drowning, dancing bird br Of blue feathers. Libidinous energy settling br In the cage of bones, wild inking white br Imagined silence of a huge vacuum, where things br Have no shapes. A fire, fueled, blown br Eating up, devouring, and the gasping soul br Holding out to the straw, afloat for rescue. br All I consume, is in ‘The Path’ br All stones beaten, all journeys sacred, all times br Mine. All else matters nothing, all presence is ‘Present’. br br My all ways have been br Either the curl, either the curve, a straightened hair. br Either mole on the chin, a restraint, held back br A lament, an impossibility, a nothingness alas! br A self devoid, a beauty imagined, a deity, a nature worshiped. br br -On reading The Thought Fox- poem by Ted Hughes br br Sadiqullah Khan br Islamabad br September 6,2013.