Write me a Ghazal

 

It seemed so hauntingly easy to say – write to me
My mind fractals this thought every day. Write/To/Me.

 

In the last book of the last people to write books
At the end, when all else is said, say ‘write to me’?

 

The wheel spins it to life, leaves no trace on the pot
You’ll be potter, spin life into this clay— write to me!

Yes, love is rest is revolution, I trust you.
Its dusk. The sun spills its ombre right to me.

 

I am just caught up in this spiderweb of words
It has been so long, I must today write to me.

 

I am nothing, come from nothing, into nothing
Is all wisdom lost at frenzy’s bay? Write to me.

 

Here I am, thinking of the poet from Kashmir
His bleeding pen piercing its way right to me.

 

We the people took all that we had for granted
Fires in Paradise burn letters they write to me.

 

The world is full of paper, it burns too easily.
I must ask what will my today write. To me.

My letter, unpostable to his land, floats astray
Will Jhelum wonder – does Kartikay write to me?