Dervish in this City of Merchants

Here,
The moon is next to me
you are next to none

I embrace a tree
and the tree sheds all its leaves to kiss my feet

sparkling all the moonlight in my curls
The moon whispers in my ear-
I am standing next to you

Sahiba
Your Love is a story of resilience
to get out of the bridle
your existence breaks its iron

Mirza
You never follow others' footprints
You are the only one who has learnt
it’s only the love and revolution
that makes a land fertile.

There was a river
where we were standing-
adept in our skills 
You knew more about swimming than drowning
I knew drowning better than swimming...
the boat was  futile for us

I look crazy 
while sipping tea at a stall
a friend told me this
I look like a lover
while talking to my daughter
my wife told me this
I look revolutionary while teaching 
a student of mine told 
I look most beautiful while crying 
this was told to me by a kiss

From my elite neighbourhood 
Looking at your house 
having fewer courses than mine
I take out one brick from my house every day
I want to hold your hand
But my dream remains a dream
The God of my privileged colony 
Steals one brick every day from your house 
and celebrates the distance between us
I wish God's pot of sin gets filled quickly 
So I can wage war with him
Please hurry, God
Love and War
are a last brick away from me.

That which you couldn’t see
is the reflection of the sun.
That which you couldn’t think
is the idea of Ardhanarishvara.
That which you couldn’t hear
is the word of the Buddha:
'I have long since stopped,
when will you?'
What you are bent on erasing 
is a patriotic declaration from the periphery:
My nation is a beautiful window
from where the father- Sun
daily at the crack of each dawn
pins the flowers of hope 
into the curls of his daughter- Earth.

Thirst will be quenched by you, splash after splash.
Fingers will tap to your resonance—
songs will echo through the night.

Civilizations will collapse at watering places,
and beheaded heads will hide within you...

You will be broken,
you will be destroyed.

Children will play with your fragments—
and through their innocence,
you will come alive once more.

You will be a shower of relief
in courtyards of grief.

You will not be admired for being strong,
but blamed for being fragile—

My dervish,
in this city of merchants,
you have a begging bowl in your hands
how could I not love you...