Does it suit you?
Making shreds out of my letters,
That I write with my pure blood?
O nymph, what good is it to block
The entrance of my words to your heart?

-

You are a fragrant rose
With gaudy petals, that twirl to trigger in my heart, the breeze of love.
I am a roaming bulbul
Dumb and patient,
Swaying in the breeze as if to welcome the accusations of love.
Should I call it an optical illusion?
Just as the sand mimics water,
Your petals mimic daggers
For when I touch them, I ooze blood.
I am a fanatic majnu
I sell my blood for the wounds?
Wounds? Yes, i have fallen in love with even your sharp daggers that chop my heart into pieces.
Your wounds feed my soul
Don't stop for heaven's sake,
I am afraid
If you don't injure my heart, it may starve someday.

-

At her doorstep,
Where my heart is sacrificed on the alter of her only glance,
Would writing poems even make any difference?

My hope is almost dead now
for that ' illusive someday".
With the ink of my vessels,
When shall I pause,
Pestering the patience of paper?

My autumn hit body, Ah!
That once had a supple and fragrant skin,
Is akin to an anonymous corpse.
You know? It reeks of death!

I can recollect,
My body would once shelter,
A heart made of million refulgent galaxies!
Ah, that heart, beating under my breast,
Would love even your broken promises.

Does death really erase the pain of whatever cause?
Who fuels that rumour?
I protest, For I die a million deaths everyday
I take the same breaths in other world
And see myself with the same candle, rummaging the same street for You.

-

Is that your fault?

You anticipate me shedding tears
I weep with the blood, is that your fault?

You don't kill me
Your separation but rips me into pieces , is that your fault?

Eyes can't murder a heart
My heart but doesn't withstand your glance, is that your fault?

You March my street with a musky fragrance
I drown in intoxication, is that your fault?

The hymns that my heart sings
Make me restless, is that you fault?

Your apathy and inattention contribute to the slow death of my heart, is that your fault?

I love with my mad heart
you don’t reciprocate since the love becomes poison, is that your fault?

For the sweet accusations of love
I trade my honor, is that your fault?

In your barren heart
I wait for the blossoms of love, is that your fault?

You ask for a couplet
I write poems , is that your fault?

-

Is that your fault?

You anticipate me shedding tears
I weep with the blood, is that your fault?
You don't kill me
Your separation but rips me into pieces , is that your fault?
Eyes don't murder a heart
My heart doesn't withstand your glance, is that your fault?
You March my street with a musky fragrance
I drown in intoxication, is that your fault?
The hymns that my heart sings
Make me restless, is that you fault?
Your apathy and inattention contribute to the slow death of my heart, is that your fault?
I love with my mad heart
When you don’t reciprocate the love becomes poison, is that your fault?
For the sweet accusations of love
I trade my honor, is that your fault?
In your barren heart
I wait for the blossoms of love, is that your fault?
You ask for a couplet
I write poems , is that your fault?

-

Though everything perished, the pain still persists
Alive and kicking
In the dead chambers of my heart.

-

The heart of my heart

Dear beloved, you know?
Your abode is the heart of my heart
Adorn it with the petals of resplendent roses
And fill it with the music of love.

The pleasure of Rumi is in his Reed
That sings for his beloved Shams
The sonorous songs of love.
My pleasure is in my heart
That beats in honour of your love
And the purity of your soul.

-

The Unposted Letters
Doesn't your country have post offices?
How long shall I roam with my unposted letters?
My blood feeds not my cells but the hues,
I portray in your longing.
I am a stubborn writer, as they say,
Your love is my ink, you know?
It won't starve my ink chamber.
I wish you could read me
To feel in my metaphors, my love
And decode it to your heart.
What do I own? Anything beyond the clutter of unposted letters?
They are my worth, you know?
And the friends of my dusk and dawn.

-

An inveterate gambler

Ever asked a gunman what bullets mean to an empty magazine?
Ask my poetry the worth of your eyes,
The flecks of love they display
To my mad pen.
Leaf through my stanzas
To feel the smoothness of your lips
And the magic of your smile
That Leavens my dead heart.
I am an inveterate gambler, you know,
Playing the gamble of love
In the pain hit chambers of my heart.
Dear Beloved, I know no other gamble but love
No other wine I sip but love
My heart is my only ship
I sail the endless sea of love with.

-

Oftentimes I get my letters back
Untouched, unread and unanswered
And with the resounding thud
That startles the innocent ink of my pen.
Yet I write, to arouse your dead compassion
With the vermilion ink of my heart....

-