It’s already late in the evening my dear
You said you’ll come to the balcony
With a cup of tea brewed in the flavours of rain
And on your lips a myriad of vintage symphonies.
Like in Ghalib’s verse, I look around, restless
For your face in the silhouette of meaningless crowd
Wondering, what excuses you’ll spin tonight.
It’s funny how you’ve always been good with words and lies.
I hear the ‘maulvi’s azaan’ echoing in the sky
As though a summon for the crescent moon to rise
My heart, though infidel, shall seal you in poetry
Your love will stain my prayers again.