An Epilogue to Shayarkhan

                For the last six months, I think I was struggling to find the words to be written in the passage of the so called ghazals that I would publish in my blog. But the struggle was far beyond the idea of making something possible, and each time when I took my pen it made me realise that you are not the same Khalid who could have wrote a ghazal in the moment's time. I have to accept that I am still unable to write those things which used to be something people calls poetry. Eventhough I have been writing poetry from the time when I was in high school, I have never experienced something which would stop me from writing poetry, but this time I think it was Inevitable.

            Eventhough I have published very few poetries, I have had a vast collection of the handwritten poetries that I have in my diaries. Most of them on the spiritual plane to soothe myself in the times where fate and furies where opposing each other. The misconception that I have begotten about my poetry is that the ghazals are directed to someone special, but as it is said about Rumi :

"में परवर दिगार के लिए लिखता हु तुम उसे यार के लिए पढ़ते हो"

I myself hereby clarify the notion of the works I have written. More importantly I think I shall ask for forgiveness for those who were hurt by my poetry.

            Still Clueless about my condition I submerged myself in to the writings of different poets, notably Mir Taqi Mir, Allama Iqbal, Yagana Changezi, Tehzeeb hafi and Shakeel Badayuni, and in this ocean of vast serenity and tranquilance, I recently found the answer of my poetic block. Let me summarise it in the words of Tehzeeb Hafi:

  "अगर एक अच्छी औरत मिल जाये तो शायरी अच्छी नहीं बनती"

And I was forced to ponder on my situation, and to realised the fact that "YES" I have found that one who was enough to pull me out from this poetic world and just like Mehmet said to Gulbahar Hatun "Your eyes make me feel like leaving poems and make me conquer the world", I too was on the start of that perilious journey that would destroy a poet and make him travel for that person only. Life changes and the days of the winter finishes, to make way for the days of spring (May this spring lasts forever).