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
And he waits.
*Meditations on Shiv Batalvi’s ‘Maaé ni main ik shikra yaar banaya’