Be it
A lane, crossroad or
A street.
Sniffing my words
Police reaches
Ahead of me
As if terrorists were to strike!
Whole lane and street are
Crowded with khaki,
My poetry is
Recorded by police.
They are afraid,
My poetry is a sharp stabbing knife.
Some day
it shall plunge
in the bosom of night!
On that day
Every page of my collection
I shall put in the hands of the wind.
From ‘Aur’
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