Saturday, September 29, 2018


Agha Shahid Ali

The moon did not become the sun.
It just fell on the desert
in great sheets, reams
of silver handmade by you.

The night is your cottage industry now,
the day is your brisk emporium.

The world is full of paper.
Write to me.

Credits: This poem appears in the collection The Half-Inch Himalayas, 1987. It can also be found online at

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