Evening Balcony, Reading Ghalib

Hashmi-al-Haseeb Faisal

The sun leans against the old city walls,

its light folded in creases of dust and prayer.

Rickshaws hum below like tired insects,

and a hawker calls out the price of guavas

in a voice cracked by centuries.

I stir my tea,

steam curling like an Urdu couplet

that forgot its rhyme midway.

Ghalib rests open on my lap,

his words breathing between sips—

“Dil hi to hai…”

and I nod, as if he still watches

from a Haveli window somewhere,

amused by our small tragedies.

A breeze lifts the page,

carrying the scent of rain and roasted corn.

Somewhere, the azaan unthreads the traffic,

and for a moment,

everything pauses

the honking, the heart, the world

just long enough

for poetry to feel like prayer.