The traffic light
outside is green
with no movement-but
as if it was red
Nakabaandi hai’ someone said.
I caress fingers
over the written words,
“Mad heart be brave”
I whisper -as I see him
I close my eyes and
he doesn’t leave.
I remember a dream
so similar
Where I meet him,
Beside Boulevard
we sit on a bench
in the foothills of Zabarvan.
He talks to me in poems
about silent Dal waters
his days in Kashmir
and about the time
he spent in America.

I tell him-how much I admire him.

How I wish to write a poem-like him.
He gifts me a book
of his poetry,
and invites me for a meal.
As he is about to leave,
I ask him
‘Shahid tell me something about you
Which I don’t know.’
‘What do you know?’ He asks.
The meaning of your name.
Ahh! ‘The beloved’ in Persian, ‘witness’ in Arabic.”
A person in Khaki
knocks on my window.
They’ve to search
me and the car.
The guard, a clean shaved man asks
‘What explosive do you carry?’
Clapping my hand to chest
Just like Shahid, I say
“Only my heart!”
-Khawaja Musadiq | Edited by Ghazal



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