Khusro darya prem ka, ulti wa ki dhaar,

Jo utra so doob gaya, jo dooba so paar.

[Oh Khusrau, the river of love

Runs in strange directions.

One who jumps into it drowns,

And one who drowns, gets across.]

– Translation from oldpoetry.com

They come in my reveries

Rushing and leaping at me,

Down these staggering vales,

Through these choking prairies-

Packs of beams and harping spells

Of bolides and black fairies.

I am the tear in a Kashmiri woman's eye

Trickling down her cheek when her hopes aren't high

I am the pain in a martyr's heart

Searing inside him when he has finished playing his part

I am the fears of an orphan child

His spirits high, expression mild

I am the woes in a widow's life

As painful as being stabbed by a sharp, gleaming knife -

So pray to God, it's the only thing you know

To bear the feelings of watching happiness come and go

You can try as hard as you can

But you'll never beat bereavement, which is what I am.

O God give me light,

to illumine my heart and kill the fright,

to burn the fears that engulf me,

to resist the nightmare that I see

With open eyes -

The hue and cry rising from a bombed home,

The mourning of mothers who lost sons.

No one knows

The crafty analysis after the bombing

About the tussle between ourselves

A friend opposing another

A fellow killing his brother

Just for his enemy's consent?

No one knows.

If this is patriotism (I pray it not be),

I long not be patriotic

for I loathe being cruel

Just for the sake of an outsider.

Someone! Someone! Let me sleep,

to escape the nightmare that I see,

With open eyes.

"God is great

God is great

There is no God but the God"

The daily siren rings

And with it,

A weekly drill begins

Devotees sobered up

Gather with an apparent air

Of sudden religiousness

Prayer caps, crisp clothes

And oh that enviable madni itar

While a bored Masjid

Hopelessly shrugs

He turns in his bed

Shouts, "Fifteen more minutes"

Running with all his might

He catches his breath

Closes his eyes

Sighs

"Right on time"

Standing in the last row

With himself, he sarcastically jokes

Bloody hypocrites

We all the friday Muslims

Carrying a smug smile

He finally joins the lips in sync

"Allah hu Akbar"

But as soon as his mouth

Starts to articulate

And intangible verses make their way

His uninvolved mind

Begins to drift

Thoughts morph

Topics switch

Till a gushing wave

Of unknown peace

Intoxicates

The venom spreads,

Muscle relax

Spiritual enlightenment

Pleased with himself

Within himself

He sincerely promises

"If not five times a day,

Dear God, I will come at least once every day"