Burquawalli, the night I saw you, I could not forget you,

Into the older lime-stone powder and small bricks madeCenturies old temples,She passing the whole nightLonely and darkBefore the Shiva-lingam,Praying to, seeking blessing from,Invoking the supernatural, nocturnal power,A devotee in her sadhnaTo have the mystical communion,Coming in the form of dreams.

TheyThe chunks of stone and rocksTo carve out and chiselThe linga,ShivalingaTo see lightThrough the human eyes?Shivalinga,Shivalinga,How to carry the stone with,How to clutch along?

As may cease to remain a poetAnd my poetry will die a very poor death.Just for poetry’s sake, cut not my beards,My beards not for to be suspected,Though may be unkempt,But not dangerous at all.You destroy not the talent,The talent within,Which but know you not,But my beards the source of my inspiration.Sir, a minute, hold…

I mean the leftists,The left-wing ideologues and thinktanks.As they are the brokers of azadiBut whose azadi and for whom?Who the stage managers?Who the directors and producers of Azadi drama?

When in the night people keep shopping,But the night,Who is of whose,The moderns, shoppers, fashionable men,Vagabonds, gipsiesOr ramblers,Drunkards or the people in tipsyOblivious of day and night.Actually, where has insomnia takenWings from,Busy platforms, hospitals,Theatres,Night watchmen and guardsKeeping a vigil,They know what the night stands forSo are the young fellows,The druggies,Allen Ginsberg taking the night all…

Cast a cursory glance over me?