Today I begin to understand what love must be, if it exists. When we are parted, we each feel the lack of the other half of ourselves. We are incomplete like a book in two volumes of which the first has been lost. That is what I imagine love to be: incompleteness in absence.
Khamosh muhabbat ka ehsaas hai wo,
mere khwahish mere jajbat hai wo,
aksar ye khyal kyu aata hai dil mai,
meri pahli khoj or aakhiri talash hai wo.
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Masroof hai din raat usy wakat kahan hai wo muj sy kary bat usy wakat kahan hai betabi-e-dil ka usy andaza kahan hai samjy mery jazbat usy wakat kahan hai
