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from Unknown Title by Ghalib

I’m neither the loosening of song nor the close drawn tent of music;
I’m the sound, simply, of my own breaking

You were meant to sit in the shade of your rippling hair
I was made to look further, into a blacker tangle.

All my self-posession is self-delusion;
What violent effort, to maintain this nonchalance!

Now that you’ve come, let me touch you in greeting
As the forehead of the beggar touches the ground.

No wonder you came looking for me, you
Who care for the grieving, and I the sound of grief.

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