Mirza Ghalib: The Poet Who Bled Ink

They say he wrote with a broken pen—

But it was his heart that spilled on paper.

Mirza Ghalib, the weaver of sorrow,

Who turned pain into poetry

And silence into sound.

He didn’t chase fame—he chased meaning.

In wine, in words, in unanswered prayers.

He spoke to the moon,

Argued with God,

And made lovers feel seen in their ruin.

“Thousands of desires, each worth dying for,”

He once said—

And we believed him.

Because who among us

Hasn’t carried the weight of longing

Like a second skin?

He loved without holding,

He wrote without hoping,

And still, every stanza lives—

In the sighs of a stranger,

The ache of a midnight breeze,

The silence after goodbye.

Ghalib isn’t gone.

He hides in every line

We write when we feel too much,

And say too little.

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