On the Demise of Ali Ehtisham

By Maqsood Jafri

The fate picked the rose from the bough of youth

Golden words have failed to express the truth

The iron hand of death has touched the ripe life

Swinging in the dome of distress his baby and wife.

The death of a youth is a toxic cup of hemlock.

The parents have to drink with a grievous shock.

Like a dancing dew drop on serene soft petals,

Vanquished by the sunny rays in heaven he settles.

I write the dirge not with ink; but with crimsons tears.

My aching heart Love smashes, smothers and smears.

The shrikes of his mother tear and tatter the souls.

The journey of her life now seems sans the goals.

Ali; the sweet son like eternal soul cannot die.

He is a slivery line in the clouds floating in the sky.

Very dear friend was he of Afzal; my loving son.

Ali was great; Ali was lovely; like him was no one.