In criticism's gaze, a scythe, a sculptor's hand,
It carves the marble of our soul, it maims.
A specter 'mongst the living, stark and grand,
It whispers, "Perfection's breath is but a flame."
The critic stands 'pon pedestal of ice,
With quill a sword, in ink, he draws his blood.
Yet, in this dance of death, what form of vice
Lurks 'neath the veil of words that cut like mud?
......
Tum rakho..
Ye bebuniyaad lateefe
Ye nafrat ke qaseede
tum rakho...
Mere pas kuch saansein hai jo maine sambhaal rakhi hai...
Kuch yaadein hai jo thoi buri aur kuch bohot achhi hai...
Ek waqt tha... Jo kabhi ruka hi nahi...
Kya main ek murda hu..? Jo kabhi jhuka hi nahi...
Ab is ehsaas ke darmayan jo kuch hai.. Wo tum rakho..
Tumhari jhooti aan... Tumhari jhooti shaan ab tum rakho...
......
In criticism's gaze, a scythe, a sculptor's hand,
It carves the marble of our soul, it maims.
A specter 'mongst the living, stark and grand,
It whispers, "Perfection's breath is but a flame."
The critic stands 'pon pedestal of ice,
With quill a sword, in ink, he draws his blood.
Yet, in this dance of death, what form of vice
Lurks 'neath the veil of words that cut like mud?
......
Tum rakho..
Ye bebuniyaad lateefe
Ye nafrat ke qaseede
tum rakho...
Mere pas kuch saansein hai jo maine sambhaal rakhi hai...
Kuch yaadein hai jo thoi buri aur kuch bohot achhi hai...
Ek waqt tha... Jo kabhi ruka hi nahi...
Kya main ek murda hu..? Jo kabhi jhuka hi nahi...
Ab is ehsaas ke darmayan jo kuch hai.. Wo tum rakho..
Tumhari jhooti aan... Tumhari jhooti shaan ab tum rakho...
......