“Since love first made the breast an instrument Of fierce lamenting, by its flame my heart Was molten to a mirror, like a rose I pluck my breast apart, that I may hang This mirror in your sight.” – Muhammad Iqbal
HAT one day soon you’d look and find no word
from me. Or you’d say we must ‘stay in touch’, since friends
can love each other just as much or more
than incongruous lovers. So, love ends.
It ends because the half-unconscious heart
that skipped whole measures when I said, “Your eyes
are black as death,” closed me in their smart
and cunning stare. It ends because your tales
were false and I believed them, and you rained
like the hot rain of Pakistan on my desire.
And when it ended, and the winter trained
its white and honest judgement on the fire,
I thought, Just one more try, just one more try
For love. It ended when you said, I am not Eve
And you were foolish ever to chase me
Among these thorns and call it Paradise.