Ghayal Fixed | Tere Ishq Mein

For in this wound, I have found my soul’s address. And there is no cure I want. No healing I seek.

They ask me why I limp through the bazaars, clutching my side where no sword has cut. They ask why my laughter sounds like shattered glass, and my eyes carry the weight of a monsoon that never falls.

The Lovely Wound

I have become the madman at your door, the faqir who collects thorns as if they were roses. The world calls it a sickness. I call it ghayali —the holy wound.

Not by the careless turn of your wrist, or the sharp edge of your goodbye. No—I was wounded by the first sajda of your eyelash. You looked at me, and I bled poetry. tere ishq mein ghayal

You are the knife and the balm. You are the one who broke my ribs open, then filled my hollow chest with moonlight.

Tere ishq mein ghayal— and for the first time, I am perfectly broken. Would you like a Urdu-Hindi transliterated version or a musical lyric adaptation of this piece? For in this wound, I have found my soul’s address

In your ishq, the pain is not a poison. It is a pilgrimage. Every ache is a prayer bead. Every sleepless night is a temple. Every drop of sweat on my brow is a verse I cannot speak aloud.