I. In the language of a city inseminated with fallen teeth and broken bones. I dream in the language of dead. I dream: my mother’s poems resemble the dark blotch on my left temple. a green horse kneels beside the body of a dead boy. a rat nips at my only letter addressed to the…
Sri Aurobindo, in his seminal essay The Future of Poetry, observes that “Truth of poetry is not truth of philosophy or truth of science or truth of religion only because it is another way of self-expression of infinite Truth so distinct that it appears to give quite another face of things and reveal quite another…
Gushes to the lips, as an orison, a wish of mine As does the candle, Allah, may so my life shine! May l conduce to the world free of ignorance! May every place gets lightened with my brilliance! So much l subserve to my nation’s prosperity, As much as a flower does to its bed’s…
These tarnished rays, this night-smudged lightThis is not that Dawn for which, ravished with freedom,We had set out in sheer longing,So sure that somewhere in its desert the sky harbouredA final haven for the stars, and we would find it.We had no doubt that night’s vagrant wave would stray towards the shore,That the heart rocked…
Regret with a cold gush of fright arrives: Autumn, suddenly, with all its might arrives! Not often: but every-time it rains all night; At dawn, a letter (you could never write) arrives. You may order every clock to turn back on Time But the Tomorrow, however, despite arrives. At last, the wait will be over…