The night has
settled.

Unsettled questions
swim in the dark,
crashing against
the walls.

The silver moon
spills softly on
the white sheets.

Empty corners
bleed into the heavy
air.

Unspoken secrets
decay in the carton.

Silence has come
with absolution.

The violent grief
of the lonely hour
shall abandon the
sails too.

And adrift would
be my belongings,
swirling into the
dark currents,
crashing against
the doors and the
windows,
knocking on my
dreams, my thoughts,
and more.

And where shall I
be,
when the dust
has settled,
and the shipwreck
has become part of
her abandonment?

Every piece of
her being
sowed in the
dust of this cunning
planet.

No one to see
for what she has
now become,
no one to remember
her name,
or mine.

i've got you on edge
you've got me by the blade

deep down in my head
we're still not yet awake

something here is dead
stains we cannot erase

sometimes i'd like to forget
violence i cannot escape

between tears we shed
we've made ourselves a lake

and the water's still red
painted blue by our mistake

the rot in you has set
and i can see the lights fade

reflecting secrets we've kept
and i can see them on your face

even though we've just met
there are feelings i cannot fake

since i've tasted your dread
i cannot let ghosts go to waste

and the demons i've fed
dance naked on this empty page

even though we've just met
nobody else can take your place

And the fool—
wide-eyed, swaddled in pink dusk
and thorn-sick roses,
suckling on the myth of hearsay.

Sketching sunsets across barren fields,
he swings the shackles—
wars, blood-grit, and the stale breath of ghosts—
mistaking the fires for a beatitude.

It is easy to be the culprit
in April’s fickle winds—
no hands reaching for winter’s ruins,
left frostbitten and mute,
like chapters pressed between the pages
of dust and dusk.

The fool speaks no tales of the world—
a bystander, heart ajar,
flinging wide the doors, the windows,
begging the seas to split.
He mouths prayers not his,
sings borrowed hymns—
and does it all,
anyway.

For that is the fool—
played, preyed upon
by the cruel and the cunning,
their feast of him
a ceremony of abandon and appetite.

Until dawn splits the sky—
and the world,
picked clean to bone-white skeleton,
turns, hungry, toward another joy.

Night’s child—sorrow of the
morning sun.

April arrives—bare, too soon,
unraveling the winds.

Do the mountains know?
Do the rivers?

That you are the light,
sharp as the moon.

Pink blossoms bloom—
splitting the bluest sky.

Do the seas confess?
Do the sunsets?

That you are the
ocean’s dream.

Bricks of the city quiver
as the hammer comes down,

red-soaked—like the blood moon
on paper and ink.

Pearls, flowers, and rains
blossom into spring.

Green meadows rise,
turning into butterflies.

Do the stars concede?
Do the shadows?

That you are
summer’s smile—

child of heaven
and dawn,

vast as I am
small and barren—

hope of the
morning sun.

Perhaps it was
a day in October,

or summer,
or spring—

it could have been
a Tuesday,

or the rains
in July.

How could I
have known?

I’ve rarely been
that blessed.

Perhaps it was
her eyes,

the song
of her laughter,

those many nights
of longing,

or the distance
that has come of
age.

But one day,
I fell in love.

the house of april


september skies
summer stars

faults within me

expanding into the
night

flaws within me

birthing autumns
morrow

sowing the seeds
of wilderness

in the eye of
nothingness

stark as reality  

stands still a
home

false within me










@writeweird

I breathe here—in this house
someone else built.

And I’ve lived in houses
built by others—

some far, some near,
but never mine.

I call this room mine—
these things, these clothes,
these books—
they are mine.

Aren’t they?

I look out the window
and see the trees, the sky,
the birds—

they’re not mine,
but I keep them close anyway.

I have loved,
and I have cried.
I’ve made others cry.

It’s not a fair deal.
It comes and it goes—
it rarely stays.

Like the words I bleed—
I confess,
I rarely know what to write,
but I write anyway.

And why do we write?

For someone to find us?
For us to find them?

For them to see us—
just see us?

There’s no art in this world
that isn’t a longing.

There are no happy songs,
or paintings, or photographs—

they’re all fleeting.

They don’t exist
the way we do.

You don’t have to believe me.

It doesn’t matter.
I do not matter.

My thoughts,
my dreams,
my words—

they do not matter.

Nothing rarely does.

But I write anyway—
maybe you’ll find me,
and none of this will matter.

I shall begin this letter to you by writing about myself, obviously, this is as much about you, as it is about me, and that is who I am at times, selfish and caught in my own self but again—this is as much about you as it will be about me, if not more, and I hope it is—I hope that is how I write it, and that is what comes at the end of it.

I rarely remember things, names and places.. I suppose it is because I'm just forgetful and lame but maybe it's because nothing lingers around me enough, settles and finds a home.. finds me as I am—I don't like looking somebody eye to eye, I fear they'll recognise I'm not who I am, see me bare and without my flesh and bones and shadows that hang around me.

But I can look you in the eye without fear of any undoing, I can be myself for a little while, I can let go of the shadows and let my scars and wounds breathe for a little while.. they only know four walls of a room, and they do not see the sky.. but sometimes, most times, I know I can let them in the open with you, safe and guarded.

I respect you, I respect that you laugh with the deepest wounds, I respect that you feel deeply, I respect that you are genuine and that you never stop trying, even if sometimes you cannot see all of this in yourself, and I hope you do, because that is you and that is what I've seen too.

You remember me, in a world that does not know I exist, You are kind to me when you have every reason not to.. and as I said, I don't remember much.. but I remember, deeply, every single time when someone has looked at me, and asked me 'you're sad today aren't you?'

We all need a shoulder to cry on when the world feels heavy and the winds are merciless, I never had a shoulder or even if and when I did, I had to tiptoe around my own tears and whirlwinds inside of me, but you've been more than a shoulder, or an arm or a voice cutting through the dark.. you've been a friend, a soldier, a rock and a pillar... on days when there is nothing, and I'm sinking.. and the world is folding into itself.. I know I'll have a friend just a call away and everything would stop spinning for a moment and more.

If I can be half as good of a friend that you are to me.. I'd be a much better person, that is how good of a friend you are, because that is a part of you, a part that you know well but maybe do not trust enough to see the sky.. you should let it out more, more laughter, more conversations, more of everything, and less of me, a lot less of me, because that is who I am—just four walls and deep darkness, and you deserve the sun and sunsets and people who laugh and are better friends and people.

It is not a declaration of me not wanting this friendship, I am your friend, and I shall be one, as long as I am, because that is the least I can offer with what I am owed to you, and I owe you a lot, a lot of things and gifts and letters and what not.

Thank you for being my friend, a candle in the darkness, a forest in this barren land, monsoon in the summers and a warm blanket in the winter.

You give me hope, and that is all I have to say for now.


to dearest,
you, my friend.

I saw a dream
in the sky—

silver clouds
poured through
the cracks

tiny birds circled
the carcasses

of toiling bone
and flesh

and here, in
my sleep

the streets
bustled with
chatter—

the many lights
mixing with fumes
and laughter

and the city
like a heartbeat
kept pulsing on

without
me

unwritten thoughts
of untold pain

spiralling down the
length of his veins

memories of an
autumn that cannot
be explained

the fleeting dream that
cannot be contained

house of the summer
that does not remain

the comforting
silence of winter's
reign

the endless tomorrow
buried in flames

unsaid

In the bones of
the planet

blooms an
orchid of silver
moonlight

perhaps in
rebellion

against the grimy clouds
that pour heaven

into tiny
porcelain cups

so easy to
break

and yet, there
it grows—

the
moonchild

risen against
the dark

monster dreams
and hides,

burning in my
bones,

melting the
doors,

finding ways
to survive
when it gets
cold.

words have
drained,
doused the
fires

outside.

outside, there's
this wilderness
I cannot
control —

how it eats
me whole,
tearing pieces
of my soul

until there's
nothing left
of me

but silence,
untold.

I love your love—
cruel, twisted, and dark

With my flesh
my bones
my heart


I loved your love
until it tore me apart

And yet
I love you still—
for all the grief

the darkness
the dead planets
the broken promises
the fading stars

It's better than
not loving anyone
ever again

I love your love
when you smile in the dark

I love your love
like a ghost loves the past

I love your love
even when nothing is
supposed to last.

i know it hurts
but it's better than pain

tangled words
mangled shapes and names

ash to dust
washed away by rains

scars and love
nothing ever remains


in this endless dusk
can you tell me what is true ?

travelled the world
only to come back to you


thoughts converge
electrifying my brain

passion surge
pulling ******* chains

swallowed the curse
now it swims in my veins

tomorrow's blurred
drowned out by the stains


in this endless dusk
can you tell me what is true ?

travelled the world
only to come back to you

only to come back for you
and it's better than pain.

How
do you smile
only once a day?

How
did I become the thief
of your laughter?

You could’ve been loved
in so many other ways—
so much more,
so much better.

It breaks my heart
to see you settle
for so little,
for so much less.

If I were anything more,
how much more
could I have truly been?

Is it enough?
I ask myself each day.

I could have swept you off your feet.
If I ever did,
I’m sorry.
You deserved better—

The moon, the stars,
the sky, the world.

Dinner dates in Paris,
the finest wine,
the rarest diamonds,
the grandest dreams.

A better heart,
a kinder mind,
a story worth telling.

But I know—
not enough.

when did you go
grey?

I asked the yellow
sun

I've watched you
as you've watched
me

grow from young
summer

to an autumn that
nests in comfort of
a heavy blanket

worn down with
every breath of the
weary chore

how come we're
so old now?

She sleeps in
my arms,

her softness against
my skin,

her warm touch
needling me,

an endless embrace
of summer.

How I miss her
now;

she’s everything—
perfect,

a never-ending
moonlight,

the expanse of
a thousand stars,

an endless garden
in the rain.

It always takes
a while,

and I cannot
stop needing,

for she is
here now,

and I still cannot
believe.

I see the sorrows
of the young boy

He is eight
and already in mourning

Every morning
he wakes up to a fate
older than time

knowing the world
isn’t meant for the likes of him

For a fleeting moment
it all starts making sense—

but then he turns around
and smiles at the crowd

says the few words
he practiced last night

He's so good at
not being himself

And the further he runs
from his flesh and bone

the quicker time
passes by

Now he's thirty
and he's still running—

writing down meaningless
poetry and fiction

filling his lungs
with cigarette smoke

drowning his dreams
in cheap whiskey

accepting the loneliness
that comes from within

Cometh the pouring
of another glass

I see the sorrows
of the old man

but now
it’s too late

let my tears
bloom as flowers
i will lay them
at your feet

watch their colors
fade to whispers
turn to silence
while i weep

and when the hour
comes to wither
let my sorrows
burn and bleed

like dusk dissolves
into the sea
may the silence
softly keep

the flowers born
from all i weep
and if you ever
dream alone

of tears once sown
just know they bloomed
for you
and you alone

My house, when I was young,
was tangled with trees and neat little flowers,
lined in rows — seas of red, pink, and white.

Or perhaps that was only a dream,
and I was never young.
Perhaps I arrived
fully formed, carved in stone,
walking in borrowed feet.

How is it that I gave myself up so easily?

Was it the sparse decorations,
the dusty mirrors where I saw myself,
trying not to become barren,
swallowed by storms,
covering bone with flesh, hair,
and new fabric?

I wish there were a place
to set down my heart and leave it there —
let my lungs do the talking,
let my arms measure the weight of hurt.

Perhaps then I could lift my spirit
at the decay of night,
and not lie awake,
in this sedated body,
restless beneath the autumn sky.

This tenacious boredom
has carved a cathedral
deep in my wounds.

How quickly I would give it all up,
burn it all, so easily —

if I weren’t made of neat little flowers,
smoke, ash, and forgotten relics.

But how can I?

They deserve to flee,
to root themselves
in a new home
elsewhere.

The things that find
me on a Tuesday:

broken,
ugly,

like me,

like the mirror that
stares at me,

waiting for me
to wake up,

waiting for me to
fall asleep,

waiting for me
to smile,

waiting for me
to surrender.

And that I do,

for whatever
reasons,

to sell me a
certain rationality.

For meaning is now
a distant memory,

fading from
my thoughts.

I see nothing but
restless eyes,

and that is
all I see.

I’ve spent all my
feelings worrying
about everything,

and everything has
passed me by,

as autumn
passes the trees,

as summer
passes my youth.

And as winter
makes a home,

I find myself locking
the doors,

drawing the
curtains,

lest the light
falls into my
sorrows,

and the birds
sing to me,

telling me there’s
still a tomorrow

to suffer.

Sometimes I sit
by the balcony

with cigarettes
and cheap whiskey,

thinking about all
the things I couldn’t
be.

That’s all I can afford
on a budget for two.

Silver clouds drift
across autumn skies,

yellow lights
line the streets,

and my bitter soul
reminisces about
sweet nothings.

fade into the summer
darling

my arms don't wrap
around the winter no more
as they used to

feel the forgotten sky
bless us with uncertainty

and rotten eyes
stare deep into our soul

watch the children of autumn
cascade one by one

breathe in the spores,
the residue of a thousand lies

those that burn
far away from where we stand

and yet the ashes
won't spare the distance

nor this golden sky
save us from the approaching
dark

and one by one
in the winds
we shall fall too

clinging on to each other
ruined by our dreams

melting into the stardust
kissed by death

O my dearest —
how many volumes
does it take
to birth a cathedral

The heavy tomes
now stacked
against the grieving sunset —

stone and paper
bearing down on the dusk

Here you built this city
the roads
the bustling houses
buzzing with gifted breath

The libraries hush
heavy with you —
your gentle handprint
on the spines
your smile
stitched into the walls

The gardens bloom
their roots drunk on your name
flowers
trees
and bees
that find honey
in your step

So much of you remains —
in the sky’s pale hush
in the walls
of spring and autumn
curtains billowing
your name
your creed

In fathers
in mothers
in forebears and children —

soft replicas
learning slowly
how to miss
how to grieve

You
the colossal

If you must know—
know that I am not the sun.
Shadows have settled
deep in my bones,
like old tenants
who no longer pay rent
but still stay.

My thoughts turn to thorns,
curling inward
until I bleed
from the inside out.

My whispers scorch my breath,
my silences
scream in tongues
no one hears.

Night is the song I seethe—
a lullaby laced with rust,
and every dream
is a bruise
I wake to.

There is darkness
in my veins,
not the poetic kind—
but the heavy kind,
the kind that forgets
how to move,
how to feel warmth,
how to want the morning.

And some days,
I forget
how light ever
found me.
How I ever
let it in.

what are the
sins of the lonely?

are they kept
in the walls of a home
that cannot weep?

for tears may come
when the fruit is ripe,
but it would taste only
of sweet nothings.

I have kept a world
inside of me,
a world far from the
outdoor light.

that place is no longer
what it once was.
it has aged, as have I.

it craves no more
the soft hum of conversations
about art and life,
nor the company of those
different from me.

it has watched too much
come and go,
watched so much
amount to nothing.



and so, I walk these
empty roads,
this fragile and silent world.

the sins of the lonely
are etched in walls
that will never learn
to weep.

in unwritten letters
to no one,
in a soured world
hidden within.

this mind, this body—
this flesh, these bones—
aged and brittle,
ugly and unloved,

now hold only the ghosts
of what once was.

and I am buried deep,
entombed in this place
that has forgotten itself.

This aged body,
in new clothes.

Battered seas,
under the yellow sun.

The violet light
of violence.

If stars could
tell a story,

would they not speak
of degradation—

of ruins,
of a civilization,

of my heart?

The science
of lonely men—

grief that cannot
be shared,

confined to
history books.

Empty pages of
old photographs,

collecting the dust
of the world,

fading in ink.

children don’t come out to play anymore,
my friend says, rolling matchsticks between
his fingers.

remember when we used to play until dark
until our mothers dragged us back into our homes

he says this between lighting another cigarette

that's why these young men today
can't run, can't lift—
they drop like dead flies on treadmills
their hearts can't take the madness of the world

he sips his third beer

we used to roll in grass, in dirt, in blood
trying to break ourselves
trying to break each other

tell me—
how many bones did we break
before turning eleven?

I try to say something
but nothing comes

he looks at me
and stares off into the distance

remember when we used to climb trees
there are no trees anywhere

what happened to the trees?

I guess they needed more homes, I say

he tosses the cigarette **** into the empty can
and the can onto the freshly cut grass

he looks at me
then starts to walk away

dusk is here

I think I'll sit here for a while
while my friend goes to look for
his mother.

beneath the moon
the world's still dark

ocean's are dead
haunted by the sharks

turned on its head
the knife won't stop
bleeding

filled with summer's debt
winter's not worth breathing

it's only september
and ghosts won't be leaving

children are fed
but mother won't stop
grieving

shut those eyes
while they're still sleeping

thoughts multiply
and scars keep breeding

cut open the alive
while they're still speaking

voices of dread
keep repeating over and
over

**** everyone
be free

stop believing.

I have yet to let the silence fill me completely.
Only words remain — pale husks, soundless,
yet screaming in the marrow of my ears.

I alone bear their rotting weight,
the brittle corpses lining my tongue.
Who else? I speak into hollow rooms,
my voice scattering like dried leaves.

Who else will watch you crash into the moon,
then spill into my half-empty glass
of fumes and restlessness?

The sun will rise tomorrow, unknowing
of the raw labor it takes
to lift my body from its grave of sheets,
my heart a stone, unmoving.

The ceiling gnaws at the sky —
its teeth sink into my hours.
Dusk, with her damp palms,
presses me into forgetting.

And yet, from the balcony,
I see distant cities glitter like broken jewelry.
I do not ache for their songs,
their spinning dances, their crystal plates.

But the crowds — the crowds —
let them tear me limb from limb:
arms, legs, flesh, bone,
the soft, spoiled fruit of my mind —

let them take it all,
until nothing remains of yesterday’s weight.
Only leave me these eyes,
so I may witness the undoing.

to wake with
a heavy heart,
sinking into
the bed sheets —

battling
the abyss,

the long days
yet to come
gathering dust
in the corners
of this room.

sunlight spills,
scattering ruins
dangling by threads;

storms rise,
rage,
and disappear.

shadows linger
in the folds
of the curtains,

the clock ticks —
a slow, tired drip
into the silence.

hope is a moth
beating itself
against the window,

a soft persistence
against an endless sky.

still, the body breathes,
still, the heart remembers
the shape of light.

the kinds of
sorrows

nested in the
arms of Oizys

soaked in a cloak
of severance

circling the roads
to Nazareth

praying, preying,
pretending

watching the sun
kiss the moon —

the last act of
devotion

before the sun
sets

and we’re all
silent again

letting go
of the sun, the moon,
and the stars.

drifting through quieter skies,
faintly vivid,
testing the waters
that never held me.

am i a free bird,
or just dust
in the wind?

to let go
of yourself—

the kind of sorrow
that keeps me awake;

the child
who never slept
or smiled,

still knocking
on the door
i buried
long ago.

how do i tell
him

there is no place
where sleep remembers us—

only roads
we walk
until the sunset
swallows
what’s left.

i want to rule the infinite
perish in flames

draw a naked kingdom
and wear dead butterflies

raise the dead spring
buried beneath my feet

watch the summer cascade
until the autumn dies

take a sip from every
ocean and barricade

until i am withered 
and broken,

burning holes in the sky

i want to slay
every forest 

and make love
to the barren lands

find animals and stars
**** away the man

watch the planets fall
from where i stand

until i am withered 
and broken,

burning holes in the sky

just like the timid child
i am.

©writeweird

the city’s out cold
the moon cries
like it knows something
I don’t

phone rings—
I let it die

what’s left to say
we haven’t already killed
with silence

I’ve felt
everything
too many times

the cogs keep spinning

do more
be more
become less
until you’re
someone else

we work
we run
we laugh like it’s medicine
we forgive what we shouldn’t
forget what we can’t

always waiting
for something
that never shows up

do more
be more

end up
less

less sleep
less soul
less of whoever
you used to be

you wake up
in someone else’s
skin

every breath
spent

dumped
into some black hole
like maybe it’s listening

washed down
with cheap whiskey
and cigarettes
that stick to your fingers

work
run
pretend

we laugh
when we’re dying

it’s better for
company

makes it easier
to sit with people

I've turned
the pages

maybe a hundred
times over

to write to
you

poetry from
my heart

and yet the
words fail me

and I'm left
with nothing

but the poem
that you are

more beautiful
than any language
can describe

and no book
can ever hold
you

all those pages
I'll write for you

shall never be
enough

for me to sing
to you

what it means
for me to see you
smile

don’t let the light
find its way to me—
not yet.

I’ve spent all my strength
making love to the dark.

let it hold me
a little longer.

let it nest in my lungs,
curl through my veins.

let it grow inside me
until I’m ready
to feel again.

let the rain
find my tears,

and the clouds
search for my name.

keep the door
closed.

I want what burns in me
to escape at dawn—
in flames.

don’t let the light
come searching.

let it all
grow wild in me.

until nothing
remains

someone will remember us
before we're forgotten—

a final ache of memory
lingering
willing itself
to survive

like laughter
like the pain
like summers spent
in the arms of rain

someone will remember us
for who we were
and all we
never became

someone will remember us
though we’ve forgotten ourselves
with no trace left
to mourn

just dust gathering softly
on photographs kept
in a home long forlorn

someone will remember us
someone will remember us
someone will remember us?

It can happen in the
middle of white-water
rafting—

waves swirling in
her depths,

reaching for the
mountains.

It can happen on
a Saturday,

between chatter and
laughter,

tea and coffee
and whiskey,

and a lot of
cigarettes.

It happened while
looking for shells at
the beach,

or the rocks in
the river.

Don't you
remember?

When it comes
without knocking,

shut the doors
and windows.

In the middle
of nowhere,

swallowing bones,
flesh, and teeth—

it can happen
to anyone

until it happens
to you.

at the ends, they clutch silver-silk straws,
sip from spoons of mercury — have you noticed?

how the broken walk the same as us,
hollow vessels crackling softly,
bits of themselves rattling like loose coins
in a beggar’s cup.

they leave trails —
grief, cigarette ash,
monday mornings that taste of iron and sleepless teeth,
sunrises pacing in their cages.

the clouds swallow them without whisper,
the wind retracts —
does not brush their sleeves,
does not call them home.

heavy air curdles in corners,
cold as the underside of stones.

i’ve watched them smile at empty coffers,
that smile — a smear of rouge on a corpse’s cheek,
so bright,
so unholy,
painted pain.

It is grief, I'm sure of it, it is grief— she says, swinging her arms.
I look at her bright eyes and trusting
smile—then I look again.

I know it in my heart, she says.

She is small but larger than life,
and I wonder—how much room does her heart have?
Is it full of grief?
If so, where does she keep me and my longing?

She takes a sip of red wine,
and I notice her pretty lips.

Oh, how tormenting it must be
to be such a fine, lovely creature—
to speak of sadness,
to spell it out,
to give words, and meaning, and shape to suffering.

I wonder if a lonely man can do such a thing.

I’ve seen men cry, yes—
and I’ve seen them clench their fists,
break porcelain cups—
and break themselves.

But I’ve never seen them become poetry.

It is the month
of the bluest skies

when lovers bloom
beneath the yellow sun

like trees brushed green
once more

They dance freely
in the summer wind
barefoot
on soft earth

unbothered by
the seasons yet to
come

as if autumn
were but a rumor

carried quietly
in the hush
between

nothing comes
to mind—
only years
long gone

through snow
and rain
in summer’s fire
and winter’s hush

laughter echoed
tears fell
mountains stood still

seas we crossed
films we lived
and all our
innocence

now just stories
letters
memories

how deeply we yearn
for what we
already hold

when I was losing
my mind

and the walls
crashed into the sky

no one noticed

it was painted
in my eyes

just a whisper

until the storms
came knocking

a quiet, steady
decline

while I was losing
my mind

and no one
noticed

I built a castle
from empty bottles

they said
I was too much

said I was pretending
to be blind

not focused enough
to meet the deadline

to gather clothes
and new obsessions

you’re only as good
as your possessions

bury your truth,
your soft confessions

there’s no such thing
as depression

pay attention
to all the lessons

you’re just prose
with no direction

try harder
to make connections

six months
of a better you

will fix the last
twenty

pick better hobbies
and a real profession

maybe they’ll invite you
to be part of the collection

God knows you need
better company, some
standard corrections

with all the mayhem
and recession

it's so hard to
be special

don’t you watch
the news?

you’re only as good
as the things you buy

buy that red dress
you always wanted

and maybe
just maybe

you’ll be enough

for someone
to notice

there are ghosts
on the roof again

they whisper
through leaking vents
and broken antennas

perfumed rot
and cheap whiskey
spill from the sink

the strays sing elegies
to the moonlight
that never comes

TV static hums
like a low prayer
in a godless chapel

we scratch
our names
on telephone poles
like saints
begging to be believed

in alleyways
children paint murals
of uncanny valleys

fables
wear labels
and reach
for Abel’s throat

every lie
is someone’s faith

even the stars
have turned
to watch

but you don’t
need eyes
to read the ruin

Dil tu kyun ro raha hai
Jo hona tha, woh ** chuka hai

Dil tu kyun ro raha hai
Jo khona tha, woh tu kho chuka hai

Ek kona hai bas ab tera
Wahin pe raat, wahin tere din
Wahin har saans ko aankhon se gin

Jo hona tha, woh ** chuka hai
Dil tu aakhir kyun ro raha hai

Tera tha khula asmaan
Teri hi thi naadi, teri vaadiyaan
Tera hi toh tha yeh jahaan
Tujhka tujhse hi tha imtihaan

Aur tu na jaane kya khoj raha tha
Tu kahin toh pahunch raha tha

Ek kona hai bas ab tera
Wahin ab teri har arz sunsaan
Wahin ab dafan har karz, har toofaan

Khud ko khud se hi bhool raha hai
Ab toh veerane mein bhi tu doob raha hai
Tab se ab tak khud se hi jhoojh raha hai

Kya ab bas ek kona hi hai tera?
Dekh, wahan ek phool khila hai
Tere aansuon se seencha
Woh tujhse pooch raha hai —
Tu kyun ro raha hai?

Jo hona tha, woh ** chuka hai
Jo khona tha, woh kho chuka hai

Ab bhi hai asmaan
Ab bhi woh naadi, woh vaadiyaan
Ab bhi hai yeh jahaan
Tera hi tujhse imtihaan

Tu kya soch raha hai
Sunn zara murshid kya bol raha hai
Kya bas ab ek kona hi hai tera?
Tujhko toh tera Khuda khoj raha hai

Ja, main hoon yahan —
Teri zameer, tera armaan
Teri kami, tera gunah
Tera nazeer, teri panah

Ja, main hoon yahan
Main hoon yahan.

in the swollen grass
there is wither-month

upon which the brutes
come and find shelter

hewn in shape
of grief

moth-bitten maps
torn in halves

theirs the flesh
of seasons

ripened canaille
of shorn sculptures

bruised fingers
that say
"there is no meadow"

as though harvest
pours in spring

and sparrows spiral
in salted hymns

so shall the night hour
wilt the porcelain moon

hung against the
slivered brume

gathering quietude
on the shelves of the
shepherds