Nights spent mulling, dipped in the inkwell— developed into
a song
You made confetti of my composition, sent an envelope with a song
When no one was looking, lies were tossed into the cauldron of history
What stayed raw, what rang true, became the honeyed dollop of a song
Glue some feathers on these walls, paint them scarlet macaw, blue jay
In this desolation, may your flightless wings break the lockup with a song
A Mongol mother sprinkles milk in the direction of the darkest valley:
a road is lit for the child who returns on horseback, gallops with a song
The last of your days, Zeest, were splintered, cut short by the axe of words
On your prosaic deathbed you pray for someone to pour the syrup of song
Shadab Zeest Hashmi
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