AN AGE AT WHICH EVERYONE THINKS HE IS A POET

Early morning sky near the Main Office 

ज़ुबां-ऐ-अश्क ना समझे, कलाम-ऐ-आह ना जाने,

देखे है वोह मेरी जानिब, पर दिल उसका ना जाने.

मुख्तलिफ रंग ओढे है क्यूँ आसमान आज ना जाने,

अपना तो वही किस्सा है, मैं चाहूँ, वोह ना जाने.

Does not understand the language of tears, the speech of sighs she does not know,

She does look towards me, but her heart, it does not know.

Why does the sky change so many colours during the day, I wonder,

My story is as it has been, I long for her, but whether she does, I wonder.

(The last line could also mean, my story is the same as it was, I long for her but she does not know.)

Those were the days when what you hear the most, leaves a lasting impression on you. Along with pimples and thin facial hair, you develop a flair for poetry in  the teens. Everyone has gone through this.  Some grow out of it, some become great poets and some end up like me, rhyming words and feeling great. We never grow out of our teens.