Tuesday, September 21, 2010


I conceive you now as one born of memory.
You're somewhere alive though I mourn your memory.

Their shrines destroyed, villages cling to fire.
Kashmir must bear the thorn of memory.

A dream of your mother filled with colors--
A blur of saris worn in memory!

"Color at the edge of blood / coal of dead fires..."
Lines by Faiz held in a breath, sworn to memory.

A day's countless details are mostly lost.
Images are exiled, torn from memory.

The garden cafe where you'd recite Ghalib--
Roses, red & white, adorn the memory.

The fire of the phoenix kindles the light.
Will Night, Empress of the Dark, scorn the memory?

You read ghazals to me over the phone.
Couplets left your lips to inform my memory.

First published in Blue Unicorn (2006)


Raza Yaseen said...

Oh, the nostalgia of the sixth verse. Long live Ghalib!

Steffen Horstmann said...

Yes indeed!