Why am I so nettled, so confused, in search of verse?
By the Dal, lanes waft the aroma: the perfumes of verse.

Oft, my labour surrenders me a paltry boon, so it will,
Unto Thou shalt – purveyor – not, the fulcrum; support of verse.

Reputation antique, as German bucolics’, Mughals’ Lingua-franca
Presently losing ground; Yes, O yes! I am talking of verse.

Now, dexterity of iotas, counterfeiters festoon it for pockets,
Tell me how to fashion: master in the secrets of verse?

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The total score doesn’t catapult the feign passion, pompous parade,
Others are striving fain, for the regard: the devotion of verse.

Forgive me today, O Shahid, for I dread to venture
To take on – ineptly, this lofty business of yours: of verse.

From Cædmon to Shakespeare, down to Eliot: every poète I adore,
Forwhy, they have transformed the precipice into the land of verse.

Muses on altitudes, metered out in recondite composure,
That they do, out of respect, out of love! for the sake of verse.

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Emancipation daily narrows down, to perfect fabrication, speak up
Now, dismantle this veil of delusion…, and ope the mouth of verse.

Crying, yet tears refuse to stream down from the eyes,
Blubbering as an infant …,”… like to cataract with the lines of verse.”

As a bird on the twig abide, for the symphony of chaste song,
Thou too art waiting alone, O Bahar, for the spring of verse.

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