The Lovely Wound
Not by the careless turn of your wrist, or the sharp edge of your goodbye. No—I was wounded by the first sajda of your eyelash. You looked at me, and I bled poetry.
In your ishq, the pain is not a poison. It is a pilgrimage. Every ache is a prayer bead. Every sleepless night is a temple. Every drop of sweat on my brow is a verse I cannot speak aloud. tere ishq mein ghayal
I tell them: I am ghayal.
For in this wound, I have found my soul’s address. And there is no cure I want. No healing I seek. The Lovely Wound Not by the careless turn
So let me bleed. Let me stumble. Let me fall at your feet until my bones turn to dust.
You are the knife and the balm. You are the one who broke my ribs open, then filled my hollow chest with moonlight. In your ishq, the pain is not a poison
Tere ishq mein ghayal— and for the first time, I am perfectly broken. Would you like a Urdu-Hindi transliterated version or a musical lyric adaptation of this piece?
