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A review by halfcactus
The Half-Inch Himalayas by Agha Shahid Ali
4.0
Wherever you were, Faiz, that
language spoke to you; and when you heard it,
you were alone — in Tunis, Beirut,
London, or Moscow. Those poets’ laments
concealed, as yours revealed, the sorrows
of a broken time. You knew Ghalib was right:
blood must not merely follow routine, must not
just flow as the veins’ uninterrupted
river. Sometimes it must flood the eyes,
surprise them by being clear as water.