Which mad prophet will come, wearing a shirt of fire, To quench this world’s bottomless thirst for fire?

At borders, to be only seen as lines on maps, Guns make mountains burst into fire.

In cities of disquiet, when morning comes Bodies are poured, as dust, over night’s fire.

Most of us are confused, a mixture of wine and water. What will help separate love and lust? Longing’s fire.

So many ways of prayer, and as many ways of murder. Did all our heartless gods, before heaven, create first hell fire?

And you, Beloved, ask why your hands are burnt? Listen. This heart you so casually play with is an organ of fire!

(To be read to the long riff of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Stairway to Heaven’)

RaatH dhal jaata hain, ---- The night passes, Shamma bhuj jaate hain, ---- And lamps burn out. Justhaju reh jaati hain. ----Separation remains.

Mohobbath ho jaati hain, ---- Love, somehow, begins Dil bikhar jaate hain. ---- And hearts are scattered again. Dard reh jaata hain. ---- Ache remains.

Waqt beeth jaatha hain, ---- Quicksilver time slips by Mulaqaath ho jaate hain. ---- And many meetings occur. Dost kuch reh jaate hain. ---- Few remain friends.

Imaartein gir jaate hain, ---- Monuments become ruins, Kasme tootH jaathe hain. ---- And promises come undone. Ghazal reh jaate hain. ---- Poems remain.

In my courtyard stands the city, Tessellated like a starry sky.

The evening fills like a garden in spring. Raindrops efflorescence on windowpanes.

And after the rain, night would emerge Washed like a glass of cut crystal.

The dust-covered evening will morph Into a low simmer of red, neon flashing

Or perhaps ribs cooking on coal. I breathe deep. Is this the scent of meat?

Or is it the fragrance of the Stranger, One who will stab me in my dreams?