May death be thy vehicle....

I know that pain is the mother of poetry

“If I meet death on my way, My Lord!

Give my limbs the strength to crawl to your temple.

So that I may lay my head on thy feet.

And breathe my last.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord!

May a cobbler find my body

And convert my skin into foot wear,

For a devotee to wear and walk to thy temple.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord

Make my soul shed my body,

Near a hospital of eyes

And my sight be transferred to a blind boy to see thee through my eyes.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord

May I fall near a colony of poor,

Strip me off my belongings through their hands,

And their children, who are thy messengers, thy angels,

Be fed, be dressed.

If I meet death on my way, My Lord

Thrash my body into pieces, turn it into ashes, and spread them all over,

Let them embrace thy creation, thy beautiful creation.

But before you make many out of me,

May I ask you a favor?

For a moment if you can,

Hold my heart in your hands,

And feel how much

My heart, wounded in thousand ways and disowned by every soul,

Longed for you, wept for you, all my life.”

A poetry whose quality I am not very sure of but I feel a little relieved.
Urdu poetry that I am listening to, teaches me how to cherish pain, and love it as my most precious possession. I don’t have much to say today. Don’t feel like reading Gitanjali either. Just feel like withdrawing myself like a snail. Bye my sweet self.

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