like gentle wisps,
like Vincent Van Gogh's Starry Night
It reminded me of ash,
from a campfire,
a remote memory of an evening
at Khandala
The year
when I actually heard a Ghazal
for the first time
I was there in one glance
and in the picture you gleamed
under the stage lights,
I had become still
Somehow
we had exchanged states of existence
I would not be in such stillness
in the middle of a beautiful Sunday
There is much to do
but then for those minutes,
time ceased to exist
Maybe
the blue striped scarf took my mind
tied it
to just stare, in captivity
I have looked at the picture again
and each time,
the clock has sped
And then I remembered
I had a poem to write
to try and explain my mind
but the words fell short
of what I mean to say
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