Song of life


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Like a ghost note from an old ghazal

that floats in unexpectedly upon the twilight breeze,

an early-morning dream awakens me with

images I thought I had put behind –

images stolen from your mirror

while you remained oblivious –



images belonging to you, me, this, that –

some random days we passed coincidentally –

some butterfly waltzes we almost didn’t see –

some rose-tipped images that would just be –


All days with all their lost images, I think

in my dream, must fade in the fullness of time,

The dreams must themselves grow hazy with

forgetfulness and poor eyesight –

The memories too, we so lovingly caress, must finally

bleed into nothing –

like it never mattered, like we never cared –


The single moment, that solitary evening, was all we had…


It is the way of life – nature’s recipe for continuity –

Atrophy the muscular present to let it pass down the road easy –


Ever seen a tree hold on to its leaves or their shadows,

the rose bush clinging to its prettiest piece?

Do trees have memories?

But you can be sure summer will return,


And the bees looping among the summer flowers will always be –


and the ghazal of your memory will still occasionally echo

through the rooms of my heart,

remind me of its emptiness –


then again, I will remind my heart –

even if the days, their memories, dim and fade,

even if the images I stole from your mirror walk away,



and lovers’ songs,

will always be…