Here I’m, inking metres, on the page of my sweetheart,
Though warbling out on a flute of shrill phones.
But hark today, hark now, the chronic tale of a heart:
She doesn’t lance my spirits mere and
Abrade on the cuts of an infectious gall.

But left me as a slave of the wrinkled age,
For the trenchant fangs of inquisitive hounds.
Thus, heaving the sighs of melancholy,
Singing the songs of hollow love.

Eyes have a weight, heart stirred in cinders,
O’ tell me somebody?
Am I then ample to couch, in a cotton and wool?
Than to chafe my hands as the poète of Maud Gonne.

Fragrance of Jasmine breaking through alleyways,
O’ how dour and pungent the odour of Jasmine!
To me as the invalid fumes of carrion.
Forwhy, I’m accustomed to the camphor of thy sweat,
Neither any perfume nor any scent so dear to my naris’
More, than the delicious cologne of thine body.

For the Màjnun – philandered through the notorious
Lanes of Leilà, – the same fumes were the wafts of
Placating eau de cologne.
The stones; capsules of respite,
From the frenzy of separation.

When thou art around Winter seems Summer afternoon.
Come and smear the lotion of anodyne over the strokes
Of my autumnal heart.
Dispel the clouds of winter away,
Gar it by the hue of spring,
And let it sing the songs of early monsoon.

Apply the balm onto the residence of thy aconitic bites,
Have been bolstered up by the venom,
Potioned by thine toxin eyes.
In ecstasy, sanctimonious men tear apart,
In subservience to deity. Thou: my idol,
So doest I’m, by the art of stealthily worshiping you.

Postscript — For Saiqa: my University, my Soulmate.

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