Whose art are thou?
Who is your creator?
'cause I've traced you in every poem and each sculptor,

Were you in Rumi's mind when he wrote, “we are the mirror as well as face in it"

Or In Mir's when he remarked-
"love is the beloved and lover too"
Who art thou?
Where you dwell?

I've seen you in Shakespearean tales
Are you Rosalind or Juliet
Being the centre of the play who dazed audience,
Or one of the long poetry of Milton and Elliott,

Who art thou?
Where thy home?

Are you Beatrice whom Dante
wrote in Divine comedy,
Or Helen, the unparalleled beauty
Or the Monalisa , a dream that Vinci's brush brought on canvass,
Or Kalidasa's mesmerizing Shakuntala

Who art thou ?
Where thy abode ?

Are you a Spenserian sonnet
Or Donne's wit and conceit?
Is it you who shot former "thousand arrows by eyes"
And became latter's "all states and a world ",
Who art thou?

This world is in you
Or you in this world?

You are art
Or art is from you?

Doubts are in hundred

Answer only one-

Any book I read,
The words I write,
All the poems I recite

In all my night’s dream
There's somewhere I find you embedded in them,

It's like all the great poets, artisans had already known you,
And carved you in pages and stones for me.

The hopeless battle
we stretch day by day,
Be quick!
Live
or
Put an end to it.

Whom do I love?
You
or the suffering you bring?

Melancholy lingers in this city
like some deadly virus
lying sluggishly,
waiting to touch the passersby.

I do care about your loose hairband
that allow your tresses and mantle
to flow in the soft breeze,
Small ***** of sweat
trickle-down from forehead,
taking the route of the cheek,
And your both hands occupied in books
Effort vainly to subdue them-

I sit and watch this battle from our college corridor,
Dreaming and fantasizing to be your lover,
And leading the army of affection
Win this contest of tresses and mantle
for you.