This night in a locked room
I sat on my chair, my legs on the bed
My eyes on the poetry of Ali*
Coffee on my right and cigarette on the left hand

Myself locked in, to be a groom
To be the martyr of this bud
Bud of the bloodshed in the lines of Ali
Between my shaking left hand, the cigarette martyred to sand

An open notebook on my table
With the notes on political science
An unremembered lecture
Burns with that dying light

The night filled with the smoke of silence
On the end of my sight, a light burns in heights
Oh dear, I’m looking for you
Or am I looking to myself through the wisdom of misery?

*Agha Shahid Ali