I have waited for you
like the desert waits for its first wound
to be kissed by rain.
A thousand summers passed,
each one a lifetime.
Each one a verse
written in the ink of longing.
The sun grew cruel,
and even shadows abandoned me.
I grew roots not into soil—
but into patience.
Every lover spoke of union.
But I—
I lived in the sacred ache
of not-yet.
The sky held its breath.
The winds grew quiet.
Even time paused
to listen to the silence
between my heartbeats.
Then,
without warning—
a whisper in the clouds.
A tear from heaven.
The first drop.
Not water—
but the answer to centuries of prayer.
You arrived
not as storm,
but as mercy.
Not as thunder,
but as peace.
And the earth inside me,
cracked and forgotten,
bloomed.
I did not run to meet you.
I stood still,
arms open,
soul bare.
This is not love—
this is remembrance.
This is not arrival—
this is return.
And the rain did not fall—
it danced.
And I did not cry—
I dissolved.
Now,
every raindrop is your name.
Every scent of wet earth,
your breath.
And every moment,
a forever.
The wait is over.
But I carry it still—
as a song.
As a gratitude
that even centuries cannot contain.
-Rashid Ali Ghazipuri