I was told by a well-wisher not to publish any poems on my blog. He said they would get stolen!
One day Mirza Ghalib started missing a poem of his, and went all over the world in search of it. He could not find it. A few days later, all Gahalib’s friends received a letter from him- he had found his poem. They went to his house to find a miserable beggar royally feasting on the choicest delicacies at the great poet’s living room. Ghalib introduced this man to his astounded friends, “This is the man who gave me back my poem. I found him singing it on the street below my window.”
Thank you, anyone who wants to steal any of this.
Obituary to Myself
Down the way on a deserted path
At the turn lies an upturned stone
Looking at it from a distance
On a little shrub a pink bud grows
I am inspired and I think
What could have been here to mark
Who might have dug so deep
To a couch a stone in soft dark
Beads of sweat roll down my neck
The yellow tells of a wasted life
Yet the unshakable weight sits
Recalling a thousand nights of strife
On a path no one treads
Guarding his territory, the sepoy stands
Signaling a road to nowhere
A prominent land mark on no man’s land
Suddenly the monster oozes blood
I spot among yellow a dab of red
The air smells sweet as the wind blows
Over a red rose on the grave of the dead
I stand still eying the fresh flower
A token of unknown love, untold
Words on an unmarked grave stone
Of an obituary to myself unfold.
One day Mirza Ghalib started missing a poem of his, and went all over the world in search of it. He could not find it. A few days later, all Gahalib’s friends received a letter from him- he had found his poem. They went to his house to find a miserable beggar royally feasting on the choicest delicacies at the great poet’s living room. Ghalib introduced this man to his astounded friends, “This is the man who gave me back my poem. I found him singing it on the street below my window.”
Thank you, anyone who wants to steal any of this.
Obituary to Myself
Down the way on a deserted path
At the turn lies an upturned stone
Looking at it from a distance
On a little shrub a pink bud grows
I am inspired and I think
What could have been here to mark
Who might have dug so deep
To a couch a stone in soft dark
Beads of sweat roll down my neck
The yellow tells of a wasted life
Yet the unshakable weight sits
Recalling a thousand nights of strife
On a path no one treads
Guarding his territory, the sepoy stands
Signaling a road to nowhere
A prominent land mark on no man’s land
Suddenly the monster oozes blood
I spot among yellow a dab of red
The air smells sweet as the wind blows
Over a red rose on the grave of the dead
I stand still eying the fresh flower
A token of unknown love, untold
Words on an unmarked grave stone
Of an obituary to myself unfold.
