He was a shower, you see,
A torrent of a man,
Who, without rain from any cloud's embrace,
Would drench you with a deeper dampness.
A shower he was, indeed, who,
Gathering the sun's spilled laughter,
Would scatter it to the far reaches,
To where the chirping, unheard, finally listened.
From the night's emptiness, eyes would ignite,
Shining with a sudden, blossoming light.
He'd sway his head, like a branch in dance,
As if a gust of wind had bloomed.
When he hummed, it was like opening clouds,
And in his smile, the music of many worlds resided.
From the alley of Qasim, a ghazal's echo,
He was a shower, a beginning.
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