Restless

What recourse is left for a wounded soul?

A heart that wanders with a begging bowl,

With eyes that seek a corner warm,

A cave like the one these eyelids form,

No waves lap upon the restless shoal.

How do I cosset this troubled mind?

The kennel of peace, it refuses to find,

At every passing thought, it barks,

Its own sorry acreage it marks,

But then begins to snap, at its own behind.

Under tortured moon, the heart does sail,

With beholden taunts, the winds assail,

It seeks every horizon in sight,

Surrounded by sea, night after night,

But where find the water, that fills this pail?

What crumbs of blossoms, the world can dole?

When, to burn the forest, there be enough coal,

There's only so much that Hope can knock,

Upon a door that Fate has locked,

Then what recourse is left for a wounded soul?

Morning

The wings over her eyes,
flap erratically,
as crumpled sleep,
makes its final flight.

Her eyes quietly blossom,
tiny rivulets of red,
crawling towards an island,
muslin black in a white sea.

She rolls over,
in cleansed hate,
and a pail full of black,
tumbles over the soggy pillow.

Hands outstretched,
in a lazy eternity,
she hopes to build a cave,
around her growing flame.

She then peeps out of,
a swirling sea of warmth,
cheeks dipped in blush,
a storm brewing on her lips.

Curb

Let me build my shanty over the chequered pavement of your heart.
Then, I shall wait.
For your limping past to come along and raze it to the ground.

Slave

Branded with pride, poisoned and fed,
Like a shark robbed of its fins,
A fanciful lark, bound to her bed,
Committed, that most unforgivable of sins,
Daylight's slave, singing my own requiem,
Tenderly, I have become, one of Them.

Smoke

Beauty, she saw, with glazed eyes,
Sweet nothings, he uttered, with a lisp,
Mingled together, those abused fingers,
Love was never meant to end in a wisp...

Paean

Called the bloodied lark,

Twisted beak and frozen lip,

Aggrieved, I disembark,

The beloved Crystal Ship.

Grace

Naghmahaaey ghum ko bhi, ai dil!
ghaneemat jaaneeye,
Be sada ho jaaega
yeh saaz-e-hasti ek din.

-Mirza Ghalib


Even the songs of sorrow, heart,
should be deemed a blessing great,
Time will come when the lyre of life
will sink in silence deep.