वो आज यहाँ है मेरे साथ. अपनी कलम और अपने पन्ने के साथ. अपने सवेरे और अपनी चाय से साथ. वो लिखता है पहाड़ों में और बर्फ यहाँ मेरे मैदान में गिरती है. पर शायद हमारी ऋतू बस एक ही है. एक जैसी. हम दोनों की खिड़कियों में हमेशा एक कोहरा सा जमा रहता है, एक सूखे गुलाब की पँखड़िया उड़ कर आती हैँ ना जाने कहाँ से और हमेशा एक कविता छोड़ जाती हैँ हमारे सुनसान कागज़ पे.
He is with me today. With his pen and his page. His morning and his tea. He writes on the mountains and it snows here in my city. But I suppose our season is the same. Alike. Our windows are always covered with fog. Petals of a dry rose fly from somewhere we do not know, and leave behind a poem on our deserted paper.
Her and I, when we make up in this world of graphite, we look outside our windows of wood, and stare at the visible skies with eyes that can only understand the invisible, the unseen that you know of and have carried with you to our nameless river. So we are shattered. We are to face mornings in a world that only moves with walls, with words written on them that are not of our language, our language without elements and characters, without symbols and sounds. We cannot recognize this world nor can it find us. Who has discarded whom? Do we belong to this world, her with her sky animals, me with my eleven and a half stones, you with your bodiless lines? Do we belong to this world? Should we ask for it? Should we revolt against its object? Share our poems? Our garments of hunger? Our dusk of dhikr? The poverty of world echoes a no. But it needs us, even in its perfectly glued wars, it needs us, the unattached . The watercresses. …