for Abir Bashir Bazaz

As he weaves the ghazal
the earth turns into water,

gods dissolve in his tongue
of slow fire and pure glass,

each couplet forms a ripple
over the heart of oblivion,

he utters the word ashiqui:
holy beads of love tremble,

he utters the word ghamkhar:
the neighbour averts his eyes,

he utters the word Khusrau:
Persian melts into Kashmiri,

in his voice of pining lakes
you hear the elegy of water,

in his voice of humble sorrow
you trace a darkness of blood.