Ilham

<p>You&rsquo;re standing in a crowded bookstore.<br/>Your fingers land on this spine<br/>and the weight feels different<br/>as if it&rsquo;s breathing.</p><p>You open a page.<br/>The air shifts.<br/>Somewhere rain begins to fall<br/>and the paper feels heavier<br/>like it&rsquo;s been waiting for you.</p><p>Inside chapters move like seasons:<br/>the bloom of love the burn of loss<br/>the wild hunger of an artist&rsquo;s mind<br/>the cliff edge of madness.<br/>God is questioned.<br/>The world laughs cruel and absurd.</p><p>Memories collide with dreams until you can&rsquo;t tell<br/>which haunts which.<br/>Every verse born in Hindi/Urdu<br/>carries its own translation<br/>so nothing is lost between lines<br/>and the meaning finds you<br/>no matter the language you breathe.</p><p>It doesn&rsquo;t ask permission.<br/>It lingers as you read<br/>asks questions you can&rsquo;t unheard<br/>and finds the part of you still trembling<br/>long after the last page turns.</p>