Journal : You Ask …

You ask, how my life is spent ?

Hear : My nights are a grant

And dawns are lent, as in alms !

Oh ! To live is not to breathe mere

Without heartaches, tears

And sleeves wet.

Look …

How besotted lovers pass

The witching hour

Eyes open pierced

With mirrored dreams of glass.

This sore is the enemy

Over my deep loss;

The ache too is ever

What the heart craves for.

Even a moment’s rift starts

The hunt for hub, my frenzy

For the fragrance lost.

My destination sometimes, then

Is a prelude mere to trek thence.

~ Meena Kumari

Freely Paraphrased.

Pakeezah

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