Phosphorous-like the moon tonight charred in the street
Dark times, when there are no holds barred in the street
Your winter aromas melted as I blew into my hands
Your summer sweat in my coldness tarred in the street
Unthinking, and with silent smiles, she gave me her heart
But what if she says, "My brain will retard", in the street?
What will you do when they shut the doors out tomorrow?
Threshold become, and get inturn barred in the street
I would arise and go now and build Innisfree hives, (but) -
Who can afford to lose ones guard in the street?
Another struggle, another fashion, and another tortured passion
Another mighty spirit convulsively jarred in the street
Oh Irony! Mistress of sunny days – foreboding, flashy..
I lost my umbrella as it poured hard in the street.
Smooth polished shoes scratch in battlefield sands,
Historian's Rana Sanga was perchance scarred in the street
The potter rubs his nose in mud, as God bows to priest
Those made in heaven are oft marred in the street
[In response to a Punjabi verse:Akhiyan je Ghumeyar mendhda, sirr mere te la'wnda', which means - Oh only if my potter(maker - Punjabi word Ghumeyar (from Hindi Kumhaar) has that double sense) would have concentrated some attention over my unworthy being...']
There is matter for memory, yes.. but then, who cares?
The moon that died tonight was not starred in the street
We cross miles and reach where? - “counter and desk” -
“Save and pray” – and measure yard by yard in the street
Ghazal! Thou coy mistress of the emperors’ palaces!
I will lift and turn you avant garde in the street.
The page smothers under ashen embers, who broke in here?
Hold fort! Is there somewhere a bard in the street?
