Serene Joys of Tragedy

We came after the songs of Ghalib and Iqbal,
after words had already learned how to bleed beautifully.

O Mushaf,
love and madness had already become scripture.

O homeland, O dust of the homeland—
whatever blood remains after these riots,
they still call it yours.

This is the fire of Nimrod,
and this is also the garden of Abraham—

what flame can remain now,
when even the self has become its own furnace?

The land of Ram and Gautama,
once a guardian of human sanctity—

will it turn barren now,
after this rain of unnamed grief?

The thirst is such, Sardar,
it refuses to be quenched.

It only grows deeper
after Kausar and Tasneem are spoken of.

I cannot look outside—
for outside is all rot.

I cannot look inside—
for inside is already decay.

There is no road left to cross
in this restless, over-breathing city.

So I take the train
towards a bookstore that does not ask questions.

And I sit there,
between pages that still believe in silence.