If you see me writing ghazals, you will know my inner eye.
My radeef is dipped in flop sweat. Watch it flow, my inner eye.
The sandstorm in my mind does not leave traces in the morning.
The grains are white as salt. Nothing grows, my inner eye.
It should be "grow" not "grows", my inner critic winces.
Formal rules are shackles; let them go, my inner eye.
Abandon hope, all who pass through these unholy sher.
At night, only glow worms glow, my inner eye.
I hear the tapping of your keyboard, a cricket in the night.
Where are all the real ones? I don't know, my inner eye.
I lay words like Scrabble tiles upon the lines inside my mind.
A pause, some hesitation, and then, just so, my inner eye!
Seven sher are enough to make the wind stop in its tracks.
Sameer, is this all you have to show my inner eye?
No comments:
Post a Comment