The mazhaar of the lover who died lamenting his uncaring beloved still reeks of the stench of his useless sacrifice, which the foolish devout try to dissipate
By lighting incense sticks…
the flame of unrequited love that blackened his heart now burns the earthen lamp that lights the darkness where he lies
his songs for her eyes, her lips, that look, and her slender waist are hidden between sheets of yellowing paper, little books that won’t even sell for Rupees five
because nobody wants to read them now and the drunkard who forgets to go home some nights, in his inebriation, sits by the grave, singing loudly into the night
and says he, when out of his mind,
sometimes
understands the dead man
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