Masud Mahmood

The motor car is always a thing of darkness, In the sun and lighted roads of day And in the luminous gas at night though 

After cremation everyone returned To their respective destination. The neighborhood was desolate 

Not so easy to assure someone 

Old friendship like cold tea waits at your side

I was led to delusion,

A ferocious heat induced meditation And the world was blurred in a haze The streets were torrid cauldrons On which the pedestrians baked.

Autumn leaves are seasoned

When my ancestral home