I’ve written your name into too many ghazals, and sungthem all alone, and hummed them in a strange tongue;
but I have stood outside silent beneath your window
too fearful to raise my voice and take the plunge
perhaps you don’t know; perhaps you’ve known all alongthat diehard habits are made out of silence and song
I have wandered centuries lost in these strange alleys
swollen the ranks at your window as part of the throng.
And I have come to a stage where it matters nothingwhose part’s to stand silent, and who gets to sing
the songs are there somewhere, lyrical behind my breath
and I don’t much care who sees my silence pulsing.
Whether you open your window and ask someone infrom the millions here is anyway uncertain;
ghazals and loyalty are now somewhat outdated
and patience no longer a virtue when worn thin;
so what does it mean? will no more ghazals be written?will some other name now pulse at the point of this pen?
Not at all, just that I’ll write and hum them at home;
passing by your window I won’t look to check if it’s open.