is tarah hai ki har ek ped koi mandir hai
koi ujda hua, be-nur purana mandir

dhundhta hai jo kharabi ke bahane kab se
chaak-e-har-baam har ek dar ka dam-e-akhir hai

aasman koi purohit hai jo har baam-tale
jism par rakh male mathe pe sindur male

sar-nigun baitha hai chup-chap na jaane kab se
is tarah hai ki pas-e-parda koi sahir hai

jis ne aafaq pe phailaya hai yun sehr ka dam
daman-e-waqt se paiwast hai yun daman-e-sham

ab kabhi sham bujhegi na andhera hoga
ab kabhi raat dhalegi na sawera hoga

evening
every tree is an ancient, dark, deserted temple

whose walls are split open, the roof caving in.
the temple is looking for an excuse to let go entirely,

tumble into ruins. the sky is a brahmin priest,
body smeared with ashes, forehead stained vermilion.

the sky is bowed in timeless, silent reverie.
there is also an invisible sorcerer

who has trapped the world in his spell,
attached the skirt of evening to the skirt of time

without a seam-which means twilight
will never be snuffed out,

darkness will never descend.
night will not deepen, daybreak will never come.

the sky longs for the spell to break,
for the chain of silence to snap,

for the skirt of time to tear itself away.
the sky listens for a conch to shrill,

an ankle bell to ring
it waits for a goddess to awaken, her dark veil cast off.

aasman aas liye hai ki ye jadu tute
chup ki zanjir kate, waqt ka daman chhute

de koi sankh duhai koi payal bole
koi but jage, koi sanwli ghunghat khole