Shikra (Bird)

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’

This entry was published on July 23, 2014 at 15:49. It’s filed under Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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