Yaad-e-maazi

The night of our love

Came to life

We sat on a sunlit porch

Sipping red and bitter tea

The sunset happened very slowly

And the nightingale

Of Ghalib's yet to be created tea garden

Sang in it's heated joy of imagination

And then came death

Someone left

The night of our love

a few moments back

was moaning with pleasure 

Soon it gave away it's soul.

Like a dead body

(Hands under the shoulders)

I am dragging it 

Through a thick forest

It's not stinking yet.

I'll bury it 

When I see the sea

Turtles will come next year

And lay eggs in it's grave

"I was stillborn"

The epitaph would say.

I am petrified of forgetting it

Like my Nana

I close my eyes and remember 

His beard, his spectacles

The distinct smell of his room

"Why do you have this old brush papa?, You should throw it away" I told him once.

"I am also old maybe you should throw me away too"

He smiled and I had fought back tears.

But today 

I strain to hear his voice 

There is not even an echo.

It's a ritual for the dead

It's takes more every day 

To keep them alive 

And one such day

I will have forgotten 

The night you kissed me

The night you spoke to me 

About loneliness 

And adventures

The night

That's all we had.

Artwork By Muretz 
Reference to Ghalib's couplet
hoon garmi-e-nishat-e-tasavvur se naghma-sanj
main andaleeb-e-gulshan-e-naa-aafariidah hoon
translation:
Behold, I sing in the heated joy of imagination
For I am the nightingale of the yet uncreated garden.