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The Way of Heart


Hebatullah Kalimee 

Heart like almond has flavour of its own
Has no fragrance but smoothness of a rose petal
It never lives in but loves going out
Holds the fan of a peacock
Warbles with a wave
Clasps the feet of a Gazelle
Strokes Menka's face
It can be showered, stolen, captured or won
But beats with the rhythm of its own fidelity
Its halo can never be transferred
Like the Ganga falling from heavens into Gangotri
It remains pristine pure and pure. 

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