I sat at my desk one night.
Intoxicated by memories of you,
I picked up my pen and began to write.
Verse after verse I wrote
About your hair, your lips, your love.
Verse after verse I found it harder and harder to write.
It was my pen.
It began to leak ink.
Very soon my paper was blanketed with blots of black.
I realized soon after.
It was amazing; the very pen I was writing with
Was shedding tears.
They were not tears of joy nor were they tears of sorrow.
I held the pen in my hand and looked at it.
The ink, the tears, began to leak onto my fingers.
In the midst of trying to figure out why
It spoke to me, words which one would not believe.
Son of the Patient Peasant
Master of the Language of Poets
Seeker of Truth
Spreader of the seeds of knowledge
Humble servant of God.
It is through you that I am who I am.
I am of service to you and therefore owe you the ink of which you demand
Every time you sit at this desk to write.
It is only through you that I learned about this world in which I take up space.
It is through you that I learned the joys and sorrows of life.
It is through you that I learned about the God that both you and I worship.
It is through you that I learned about science and math; the very languages that God himself proves his existence to us.
It is through you that I learned about the Great Elders of Hind and Punjab who spread the word of God.
It is because of you that I sing Heer’s name and Bulleh’s Kafi.
It is because of you I remember the Gurus that walked the very land on which we live.
It is because of you I learned what it is to love another soul
It is because of you I am able to feel the pain of a broken heart.
And it is because of you that, tonight, as the rain pours down on the fertile soil of the five rivers that I cry in your hand.
I cry tonight as these thoughts blanket me, devower me
With a sense of everlasting greatfulness
Something I fear I can never thank you enough for.
A tear of my own rolled down my face.
I continued to hold the pen in my hand
Unmoved to the ink staining my hand.
For it is me that should be thanking you.
It is because of you that I have been allowed me to share my wisdom, knowlege, passion and love with this world.
It is because of you the world knows about God and his Messengers, Gurus and Peers.
It is because of you people are aware of injustice.
And it is because of you that I sit here tonight and share my love of her with the rest of the world.
It is because of you that I celebrate love with the colours of word and prose.
My dear Pen, this is all because of you.
You are what made me.
Your ink is what has made me.
Cease your tears dear friend.
It is I that should be crying
Tears of appriciation and indebted-ness.
You are among the greatest gifts from my Creator.
The ink stopped flowing out.
I could not believe what just happened.
I looked at my paper.
Drenched with the colour black
It looked like the ocean on dark moonless night.
It surrounded the first line of my poem of you
As if that first line were an Island.
I took the peice of paper as is
And hung it over my desk.