Tere Ishq Mein Ghayal May 2026

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.

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

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. Not by the careless turn of your wrist,

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. For in this wound, I have found my soul’s address

I tell them: I am ghayal.