With all my innocence forgotten,
I’m blinded, Sacred Light forgotten.

I daily dress in pricey silks,
A million martyred worms forgotten.

Why does Nightingale grace my home
At dusk, her sky-high home forgotten?

To free her from this world was hard,
The sparkling of her eyes forgotten.

I oft forget to talk to her
Who talked to me, my pranks forgotten.

I stay away from all her mail,
Her dazed, hypnotic scrawl forgotten.

I’m grateful, Misra, for them now,
Whose kindness, so far, I’d forgotten.

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Translated from my Hindi poem, भुला कर

bhulā kar

ho chukā hūn apnī nadānī bhulā kar
andhā Khudāī daraKhshānī bhulā kar

resham ke kapDon mein sajtā hūn har din
karoDon kīDon kī Kurbāni bhulā kar

āti hei kyon mere makān pe wo bulbul
har shām apnī makān āsmānī bhulā kar

mushkil tha jahān se rihā karnā usko
uskī wo niGāhein nūrānī bhulā kar

bhūl jātā hūn aksar bāt karne us se jo
bāt kartī rahī har shaitānī bhulā kar

dūr rehtā rahā uske har khat se main bhī
wo likhāwaT uskī mastānī bhulā kar

hūn shukar guzār unkā is pal mein ‘Misra’
jiyā hūn jinkī meherbānī bhulā kar