Ubaidullah Pandit (عبيدالله پنڈت)

You carry a million Jhelums in each strand, Yours is longer and stronger than Rapunzel. Let it down like rain, let it flow with rage, To them turn September the seventh again. Yours is sleek, sleeker than silk, Shinier than a million suns in the sky. For them turn it into a hanglady’s noose, Rise a little and set their world aflame. My love, my love! How could they sever yours? Tell them, Of old I'm the inmate of your locks. Your braid breeds Love shackles stronger than iron, Love bars as hard as Zeus' Bolt. To my brave but fear-stricken Lady.

The Sun is scorching and its heat full of poignancy. I am sweaty, perspiring profusely. The path seems unending and the journey unendurable. No shades, not a single tree, no oasis, not even a mirage. But where does that moonbeam come from in sunlit day; So pleasant and cool, burning the Sun and the heat thereof? I look up, but there's no fount. What’s this drizzle? It’s rejuvenating, and dries up all my sweat. I look up again, but the sky is clear. I look around and see a milestone by the roadside. It’s painted blue, not yellow. It reads, ‘Congratulations! You’ve walked 22 miles.’ (25-June-2016)