These days,

Life is nothing more,

Than a cigarette,

To be puffed and thrown away.

Morning sky has heavy clouds,

Looks as if,

Some clowns are out to please me.

All night long,

I battled sadness,

Amidst busy people,

Preparing for fasting,

While a dog also kept whining,

With its tail wagging,

Imploring all around,

To pat him and give him some food.

Songs and music,

With a friend,

Worsen the blues inside me.

Stella* once said:

"Life's a bitch",

And as the light spreads I agree,

With what she said,


While trying to impress me,

With her English charms.

And there was also Yank*,

Who used to rant that life sucks!

How she loved to be called Frippy*.

And as I step inside a hall,

I find some guys who,

Make fun of Faraz'* poetry.

My cigarette packet drops,

From the pocket of my jacket,

As I too laugh in such company.

But like I said,

Life these days,

Is nothing more,

Than a burnt out fag,

But, why am I so sad?

Why this conflict between joy and grief,

Almost daily...

Will someone pause and tell me?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

*Stella: An old colleague.
*Yank: A friend in Ohio.
*Frippy: Yank's pseudonym
*Faraz: Ahmed Faraz, a popular Pakistani poet.
Composed in Karachi on the 27th of September, 2008.

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