Do men really drink to

drown their sorrow

or

to remind themselves that

sorrow obliterates

intoxication?

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Conviction

to

cynicism

to

nostalgia

aren't these the basic stages of life?

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Is it the ashes and sighs of our days and nights, our wanting and fulfillment that will remain to testify to the heart-space willingly conceded or stolen?

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Did the night notice

how the mirror looked at you

while you were asleep,

and

how the shoes took a walk

wearing your skin?

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What is contained in the pension slip of a retired revolutionary?

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After being trodden by how many uncaring feet does a pavement stone give up on humanity?

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When voracious readers die,

why don't their mortal remains turn into so many pages that will fly in all directions celebrating literacy?

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