<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=464545" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Daughters</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">(Dedicated to Atika Iram: My Daughter) <br>Blessings are the daughters, <br>Sin is to discard, disdain them; <br>They make the house alive, vibrant, <br>A place pulsating, worth living, <br>When they cling around the neck, <br>Or greet at the door blot all tedium, <br>Of the toilsome, tiring, arduous life.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When they play hide and seek, <br>And confine themselves in the rooms, <br>Or conceal behind the doors, <br>Or under the cots, or ride on the backs, <br>Of fathers making them their horses, <br>They seem to be the lasting assets, <br>Or long going, propping companions.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They grow like the trailing creeper, <br>Or like the boughs of wild prime rose, <br>Or too green mustard plants, <br>That grow in the manured, watered farm, <br>Of wheat on the plains of Punjab.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then all of sudden a procession, <br>With pipers, drummers and fire work, <br>Arrives at some certain day, <br>To take, snatch them away, <br>When the parents look at the departing convoy, <br>With the tearful eyes the world seems hazy, <br>But these moments reveal a reality, <br>To the parents, perplexed, unascertained, <br>That the daughters are not home-pertained.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Muhammad+Shanazar">Muhammad Shanazar</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=464545" data-title="The Daughters de Muhammad Shanazar" data-description="(Dedicated to Atika Iram: My Daughter) Blessings are the daughters, Sin is to discard, disdain them; They make the house alive, vibrant, A place pulsating, worth living, When they cling around the neck, Or greet at the door blot all tedium, ..."></div> </div> </div>

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