Who will sing of your beauty now, this poet’s light is dead.
The day is mourning, veiled in black; this heinous night is dead.
Bloodied stars drip from the sky, the rain begins to weep.
The earth covers her naked chest; love’s last delight is dead.
Words hang in the air like fireflies, without their glowing souls.
Close those pages, bottle the ink; the spirit to write is dead!
They build a pyre of silent songs, cut from the hardened air.
It burns, dark-eyed, like his eyes; that flame once bright is dead.
With a lantern of broken memories, she wanders through his mind.
So many lines, not one goodbye; whatever was right is dead.
Who will sing of your beauty now, the poet’s sight is dead.
Where he lay, black roses bloom; even the blight is dead.
(In Ghazal format)