SONNET 781
By JH Sayyar
O Afzal Chatta, lover of the red vine,
Thy goblet brims when others call it done;
From dusk till dawn, beneath the stars shine,
You drink to restore youth or drink for fun.
Your friends plead, "O brother, hold thy hand!"
Yet still you toast to songs and bygone days.
Your speech slurs, your feet no longer stand
But still you walk in Bacchus-blinded ways.
What spirits haunt you in that ruby glass?
What sorrow hides behind thy drunken cheer?
Each sip; a shadow from the moments past,
Each pour; a wish to drown regret or fear
Yet know this truth: no cask can heal the soul
The heart needs light, not wine, to make it whole.
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