Bed of roses

There's an effervescence around me,
Fragrance of Urdu, sprinkled with love,
Warm enough to melt my illustrious words
Yet just enough distant, like a teacher's snub.

Each word I write feels like an Extra,
A film set with no recognition in tow
And thus they survive, unable to inspire
Like Extras do, behind the luminous Hero.

In this lonely night if I beg honesty to arrive
Will she pour herself in my poem with pride?
Would some time be left, after time's demise?
Musafir hoon yaaron; nothing's left behind.