Never Keats had known, nor Yeats either
Who’s the one who phrased, passion better
Be English deemed, the tongue of flair
Yet no match, to his Urdu’s, savoir faire!

As he strutted, thru Delhi’s, streets of shame
So did his quill, drunk in divine despair
If not ‘Ghalib’, what would be, a better name
For a doyen, who laid, pain’s heart, ever so bare!

For whom, ‘child’s play’, were woes of the world
And pain, sole substance, to sum, the whole lot
How the brim betwixt, bliss and woe, seem blurred
He stirred pain’s soul, other bards dared not!

What élan endowed, a life weathered
A cherished pain, his love profane
By a timeless nerve, remained tethered
His wild vein, The Man Who Knew Pain!

© 2017 Vikas Chandra