Kuch der pehle me ek kavi tha
shabdo ko tor kar, naye shabd ki rachna
krne wala shilpkaar.
Umukt gagan ki uchaiyo me rondhta
aasmaa ka shasak baaj tha.
Pr sawal ye nhi ki mai kon,
Prasn hai kavitao ko padhne wale kon?
Padhne wale sb dekh kr aakho ko
band kr chlne wala andhe hai.
Laachar aawaz ko sun kr, kaano
ko dhakne wala bahre hai,
Aur is samaj me pal pal mitte
astitav ka darsak hu mai.
Ek muk lekhak.

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medicines are made to heal,
and people to hurt.

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someday i wished to have a friend like doremon
with a cupboard with a time machine inbuilt,
i too have a one, which could travel through future only,
at a rate one second per second,
which people think a bit slow then it should be,
but i manage to use as i need, as i move slowly and slowly
it moves continuosly, carrying an afraid me.
I fear to peep out the hole of the time machine cabin.
I see the trees passing by, in the rearview showing what left by.
some lovers holding roses in hands to a desperate breakups,
and a birth waiting for death to hug.
finally i close the window side my seat,
looking back if my time machine could give me a re-live.
i see the hands of clock seperating for a reunion again
Till the machine stops finally, leading to a black out.
The rear view seems to be show the last pics and
the machine leads me to my destiny.

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in this parallel universe,
Sahir and Amrita will find the
way to one,
she would've never written
Main tenu fir milungi.
but thats impossible
for me to tell you-
because I have loved those every
stroke of colours that imprints
Imroj in my fortune, perhaps
could either be not the love in end.
we are hopeless romantic birds
that met every corner,
that doesn't ensure that love stays
forever,
instead that poetry stay immortal.
Perhaps Imroj is the poet who
could have written-
Tu menu har janam me milanga
as the time realises -
that time is just to change not love

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तुफान सा मचा है दिल में
शायाद कही रिश्तों ने मुख मोड़ा है।

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in my home we never repair things
the flickering light bulb ,
hung to an old socket,
a broken bathroom tile,
to a cracked ceramic cup
which still touches lips of
pa, everytime he kisses his tea.
someday finding its place
in the dusty glass cabinet
with the most precise crockery
gifted long back, that never used.

in my home we never mend things
untill we know its functional yet,
like a broken vase and a broken heart
because it still holds the backyard lilies.
in my home sometimes i never fit
like the old photograph kept aside
bigger than the frame brought for
it to be hung.
the photograph needs to be cut
2 inches from top, 1 inches from bottom
like the reality cut wings of dreams
to adjust in frame brought for it.
my home is not a home, its my heart
and my heart is where i never live.

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Each night I breathe
my deeds, filling the lungs
with grief, unable to hold
the heart. My blood vanishes
as tears run around top
to bottom.
Every night I die once to
awaken the fault i had never done.
Each night I wait for that
random text, that meant never
to be random.
Every night I accompany my pillow
thats holds my secrets and emotions
too.

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Who will cry after you die?
Obviously not you,
You, who got angry in unknown things
You, who got me wrong when i mocked
You, who listens to me when i am off
You, who you yourself are when I got lost.

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The pain I carry is much lesser
than the scars your words give.

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