I could always forget the pain,
For then what would be my love be worth.
For though pain be not what I seek,
Where else would I learn to love?
Many be joys of life,
But when two hearts feel the same,
Like the rhythm of two hearts,
The song be different than the din.
Hearts though be cleaved by names,
And there be none to tell all,
But a name is not what it yearns,
Love grows fine in shadows.
That what is it's may not seem,
But in stolen dreams it lie,
Though it may never touch a kiss,
Silence some times is good enough.
I have a small spark within,
Let me burn out.
For it is in the flame to burn,
And in my heart to be consumed.
Go thither from me,
Lest I burn you too.
And my eternity with me,
My life mine to rue.
My paths are set in stone,
And quiet I will go,
I will leave no mark,
And nary a tune slow.
It is a slow march,
And little do I care,
For there is a madness to me,
This I will never share.
कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
चल लेगा कितनी राह तू युहीं अकेले,
कभी डरता हूँ, कभी सहमता हूँ,
पर फिर चल लेता हूँ मैं युहीं अकेले।
कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
अभी कितनी बची है पैमाने मैं,
जब तलक छलके नहीं मैखाने में,
युहीं दो घूँट पी लेता हूँ अकेले में।
कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
कितनी तसल्ली है यूँ जीने में।
हमारे पास युहीं कुछ नग्मे हैं,
युहीं गुनगुना लेते हम अकेले में।
कभी कभी ये दिल हमसे पूछता है,
कितनी जान बाकी है इस अकेले मैं,
जान तो हमारी कहीं और बसी है,
युहीं याद कर लेते साँसों को,
हम अपने अकेलेपन में।
The beauty of a flower be not in a colour,
For colours do fade by the night.
Nor is beauty in the heady fragrance,
For by day it is despoiled.
The beauty of a flower not be in thorns,
For where hath beauty lain without poison.
Beauty changes not,
Though flower be in a wreath,
Or at the feet of gods.
A flower may mean a lot
To myriad people of myriad hues.
Where there is love,
There always is a memory,
Of the flower when it buds.
To a life in memoriam,
My flower is in my heart.
This is a path you have walked upon,
I can follow your footprints,
Though I cannot see you afar,
I will follow you through the mist.
I hope not of meeting you,
But I know you are somewhere near,
For all that beggars may choose,
They may never choose their fear.
The wisps tell me of your passing,
They mock me, for I follow,
But another story, to me, is unknown.
I trace my steps to where you are gone.
I am not a poet or a bard,
I may only be a mirror shard,
For when, which looks unto me is gone,
What am I but a songless bard.
Where was I,
When life took another turn,
Looking far into the road,
Or just to the few steps behind.
Where was I,
When life was calling out,
Staccato lies and tantrums,
Anger, blame and doldrums.
Where was I,
When life took all away,
Not fighting till the end was near,
Of the pain too hard to bear,
Where was I,
When my love was taken,
Not by my steps, nor by my hands,
Nor on my waters, nor on my sands.
Wish I were a snowflake,
To melt slow at your feet.
To be water with you,
And flow quietly into the street.
Little magic in me,
All of it off you.
Not as if we are different,
Just a matter of who's with you.
In waking, different to be,
In dreams together.
Magic is not off one,
But love is in dreaming together.
A poet may live through,
That his words are only heard,
In the confines of his own.
Little can he gain in words,
For the words are his heart,
And her it was spoken to
Never struck a chord.
And then, another comes along,
To steal those words of old,
A little stop here, a word there,
In the theatre of life,
The game always is for the showman.
Little words are twisted,
The feelings laid bare,
For that, which was a beauty,
Is now crass enough to share.
Them that never got the words,
Now can smile,
For the song is now gaudy enough,
To engage the mortal soul awhile.
The colors are washed out,
The smell serene nomore,
The words taste insipid,
The beauty worn out.
For the mortal, beauty is not
The pain in the heart,
But for words that spell their name.
For the poet, beauty is not
The understanding of all,
But for the heart and nary a game.
But the poet turns,
Without a smile or tear,
His story is stolen,
As was his heart.
Ever it starts,
With a sliver in the mouth.
Oft repeated it grows,
The shape of thought,
Though a wisp it may be.
Shadows do slowly grow,
And doubts they become,
Death of hope slow.
Ever a doubt has come,
And turned not to blame,
That the father of anguish,
The precursor of pain.
Little things in little shadows grow,
Little things do devour slow.
Oh so glorious it would be to be free!
Living to a hearts content,
Be by the beach,
Shouting the head off,
With a smile turn back,
And see her hair fall on your face.
So beautiful it would be to be free,
To go have a fight,
For you knew, the kiss would be perfect,
And perfection should be savored.
You know the freedom
When she sings ,
And the quiet heart smiles,
For the song is in you and within.
So free to wake the mornings,
And see her beside,
Oh yes, the fight last night,
Is another of them that you forget.
For your heart is warm,
For she is there
And when the sun sets,
You can kiss her again.
हर लम्हा खामोश सा,
कुछ कहने की कोशिश करता है।
बेबाक दिल की गुजारिश,
पढ़ने की फिराक में रहता है।
हर लम्हा अतीत का,
आज की रंजिश करता है,
क्यों बढूं तेरे बिन आगे,
यूँ ही दिल में उफान आता है।
युहीं चल नहीं सकता बिन तेरे,
पर युहीं तो चलना पड़ता है।
गुज़ारिशों की साजिशों से,
तेरा खुदा भी तो किनारा करता है।
थोड़ा चल लूँ, या गिर जाऊं,
कफ़न तक तो चलके जाना है,
ख़ामोशी की ये रहगुजर,
परछाई ही बन चलना है।
बस युहीं चलदे तू,
मुझे अपनी राह चलना है,
दो कदम पीछे ही सही,
मुझे मेरे खुदाई में ढलना है।
Little do voids matter,
For what was in us is given.
Of the men we were,
Not even pebbles remain.
Dreams of boys are done,
Open eyes scare now,
For those stares are glass,
Meaningless somehow.
A terrible storm is moving in,
Hell what do I care
I will be dead by then.
Some stories should never be told.,
For in their telling passes life.
In the telling all lies,
For none can be live after.
The end of all stories be the same,
Small joys along the way,
But so do some stand behind,
There is always a shadow grey.
Bury deep, deep within,
Within closed walls and sleep,
In unseen dreams and eyes sore,
In staccato words and a quiet deep.
Some stories will lay untold,
For never did they unfold,
Of what would have been,
Can never be a story sold.
And so will they lie,
For ages forgotten in dust,
On a blank paper in bold,
Some stories should never be told.
