He waits,
Like a bird perched on a window sill
Calling out every few minutes
to check on me.
He waits for a story, or a poem
that will tell him of love –
One that throbs in his blood,
One that flows in a poet’s ink,
One that he would carry under his wing.
He refuses to accept that I’m not
a poet.
And he waits.

*Meditations on Shiv Batalvi’s ‘Maaé ni main ik shikra yaar banaya’

Posted by:Salonee Pareek

I'm a story-teller at heart, and I use images and words to tell the stories I have to. I have a day job of a communications professional, and I moonlight as a photographer. I'm based in Ahmedabad, India. And I dream of travelling the world.

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