for HS 

“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.