Tu durr gaya to Kya
Mere rooh me
Tu basa hai..

Pata nahi
kab wapas aayega
Par mere har Rastey par,
har mod par
Tu hai...

Insaan alag hai
Par Meri ankhe
humesha tujhe
dhundti hai..

Pata to nahi sapne
Haqikat me
badalte hai ya nahi..

Par ab sapne me
hi jeena thoda
Sikh liya hai..

Tujhe dekhne ki
aadat hai Hume
Aadat to
chhutne sey Raha..

Ab tujhko
khudme pane ka
aadat hume
lag chuka hai..


English Translation-

So what?
You are away
But you reside within
My soul..

I don't know yet
When you will come back
But in every path
In every crossing
You are there
To accompany me..

People are different
Yet my eyes
seek for
only you..

I do not know
Whether dreams
come true?

But now
I have learnt to
Jump into the pool
Of my dreams
With you..

To see you
Has become
one of my habit
Which will
Neither leave..

Now
you are rooted
within me,
Has become
My best habit
of all times!

Once upon a time was I a prodigy,
Wandering and drifting to find a phrontistery,
A fantasy beyond thinking,
I was a child of precocious virtuosity.

But now time has liberated from my corpsic avatar,
And to God, I was announced a groom to a bride called progeria,
Not only I but now the entire human race seems to undergo ephemera,
A phenomena not to be taken dilemma,

Death do us part dear poet
Though through our good deeds our work serves eviternal, sempiternal-and eternal.
I know not who I am,
But the tombstone that is scarred with my name cements a legacy that
Buries everybody's histories.

Death is but void and will lead me to become  a martyr,
For I deeply believe that poetry is the finest art And  not a literature,
I am certain that a spiritual minister on the day of my burial will fail to point out that I was a sinister,
They will all say great things about me-
Where is the wrong, where is the perfect picture?


I once decapitated a seraph for I but thought it was a boobook,
Look!
Now I can be pseudocodenymic numerical, alphabetic artist.
Yet, what am I rather than being a poet?

For the reason that death will deprive me of my rights and belongings,
I don't wish to fall in love but sometimes I get caught up that she might be the daughter of Jesus,
Because I can't get my mind off her celestrial features.

Who else but her makes my story worth telling?
But yet I was in bedlam because of her,
Yelling like a certified lunatic playing,
I however can't forget the asylum's floors and ceilings,
The horrible medicine that got me to be always day dreaming.

Is this the same "cycle of psychopathic love that all these poets failed to describe?"
Affirmatively! This is something they will never outmatch,
Sadly, this all seeing sun never saw
That me and her were a match since this world begun,
Hence, I had to give her up to win everybody's heart,

I gained a voice of thunder to be crowned the darkness author alive,
So I ask,  where are the poets of yesteryear? The nail biting, acerbic, alcoholic nighthawk ******* who truly knew how to write?
WHERE IS WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE?  WHERE IS EMILY DICKINSON? WHERE IS EDGAR ALLAN POE?
indeed I outmatch them all, do you know why?
It's because I am still alive!