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.
Truth Within, Shines Without 
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