a girl arranging the leaves of a potted money plant ,
sweltering to the summer heat, thinking of love,
a twenty-something jamming on his guitar,
eager to pluck a fresh note,
a blind poet – old now, running his finger over a blank sheet,
picturing the words he’d write there if he had the eyes to,
and then a voice fills their stilness,
deep, fluid, wrapped in sunlight, soft and fragrant as roses from valleys,
the voice slips past the money plant and gives love a halo in the girl’s mind,
run’s down the fingers of the musician and inspires them to a start,
colors the longing of the poet: making it a relic,
and so each of them: girl, musician, poet,
surrender to the voice:
your voice, Irfan,
rising from their computer, TV, and radio,
landing in their heart, sacred as a chadar
so that they each look within
at a heart cloaked in your voice
and experience in their different emotions and different cities,
a flicker of the same purity
stirred by Irfan. The voice.