Ajmer Sherif Dargaha Poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma

A city chocked with bearded, skull capped and scarf heads;
Rushing and queuing feverishly, in the blazing sun:
Offering, mindlessly; in the name of a dead, poor FAQUIR.

A dead soul, lost but now his grave is banged by millions;
Believers are flung, carelessly to the mazar, concrete,
A big green chader, veils all; with a loud burst of blessings.

The streets, stations, schools, inns, all are suffocated;
With the sweat of rioting, innocent, believers;
Away in his grave, poor faquir’s bones; lamenting.

Who is this dead faquir, still hungry and thirsty?
Not satisfied with all these heavy and loaded offerings,
Who is this faquir, whose needs and belly is so big?

Inside chadars are offered to concrete mazar,
Outside, dying of colds poor fakir.
Enjoying best of life civility believers and ignorant.

Struggling and crushing their bones for a morsel,
An abused, naked, hungry child, lying in a dark but desolate lane;
City, still, besieged by the bones of a dead soul, hundreds of years back.

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought.
As doth eternity: Cold Concrete!
Thou shall remain, in midst of other’s woe.

But the faquir is not ready to die on this hungry and thirsty land,
Ready to resurrect to the pitiful, meaningless world;
Perhaps, somewhere in the Q, praying for his next chance.