By JH Sayyar
Where sunlight dances on the lemon leaves,
And golden globes like lanterns gently swing,
Afzal Chatha walks through mellow eves,
His orchard hums as bees begin to sing.
Each branch, a verse in nature’s quiet prose,
Each fruit, a sun distilled in yellow skin,
The wind, a whisper where the jasmine grows,
And time itself grows drowsy deep within.
The scent of zest and soil — an earthy blend,
That stirs the soul more than the finest wine.
This grove, where toil and tenderness ascend,
Is Eden traced by mortal hands are divine.
No marble tomb, no crown, no poet's fame
Ah! His lemons bloom: eternal is his name.
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