My friend, in the guise of a scientist, became a poet of secret lore—
Like Ganga, tired of flowing through times, in need of a folklore!
All these days talk of Rumi, alas Rumi talks of none!
Why none is so special, and I, so small, to act prizeless on the chore?
Quantum, quantum, quantum you say, is all just quantum around?
Are we in throes of quantum-fever, lost in an invisible drugstore?
A drop fell in the ocean, it seems, or the ocean swallowed a drop—
Such are the grave matters that mathematicians and mystics explore!
When I ask mirrors, who I am, they laugh at my churlishness—
“A face,” they say, “is a passing smear that cosmic lights restore.”
O Qasim, even the truth has weight, so weigh it with tact and care:
You must learn to be truthful about the very scales you adore!
Photograph Courtesy: Alejandro Piñero Amerio, Pixabay.
Arup K. Chatterjee 