مغالطہ/Mugalta

THERE'S NO LAST CIGARETTE FOR ANYONE

After billowing the last

cloud of smoke from

the cloudy mouth and

stubbing it out into

the Moon ashtray,

something always remains

burning between the luscious lips of

mind. A poking stick some

call desire, some dream, some

prefer to call it fantasy, some

call it appraisal, some promotion,

some craving, someone something . . .

By the end of it all, there

always remains in hand

a new cigarette.

FOR MANSOOR

A poem in your memory

has been long in coming -

dying alongside you

would have been the alliteration,

buried in the grave with you,

the aesthetic enjambment. . .

A mourner is an inveterate gravedigger.

But today I realized,

walking in your shoes,

touching the ground as You 

dovetails poetically.

Poetry still has not arrived,

the shoes are here on the page,

the poem is strolling.