The traffic light
outside is green
with no movement-but
as if it were red
Nakabaandi hai’ someone said.

I caress fingers
over the written words
“Mad heart be brave”
I whisper -as I see him
I close my eyes and
he doesn’t leave

I remember a dream
so similar
Where I meet him
Beside Boulevard
we sit on a bench
in the foothills of Zabarvan
He talks to me in poems
about silent Dal waters
his days in Kashmir
and about the time
he spent in America.
I tell him-how much I admire him
How I wish to write a poem-like him
He gifts me a book
of his poetry
and invites me for a meal.
As he is about to leave,
I ask him
‘Shahid tell me something about you
Which I don’t know’
What do you know? He asks.
The meaning of your name.
Ahh! “‘The beloved’ in Persian,  ‘witness’ in Arabic.”

A person in Khaki
knocks on my window.
They’ve to search me & the car.
The guard, a clean shaved man asks
‘What explosive do you carry?’
Clapping my hand to chest
Just like shahid, I said
“Only my heart!”
Khawaja Musadiq For Beyond Sanity Publishing

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