Gambling on some fickle-headed morrows,
A certain vagabond smidgen of her recherché self
Rides on the reminiscences of a decaying silence.
Past the lure of a clamant moonlit painting of
Those zillion vows that weave a chimerical zilch,
Past the utopian sky of a seemingly unerring halcyon,
It rides to the wilderness of an uncouth blasphemy.
Like an unbidden gypsy clad in whiffs of callow altruism,
It waltzes to the cadence of this mirage of fallacies;
A cadence that you believe, plays antonym to its being!
As if carousing in the mid-summer bliss of an Italian vintner,
It spins a decorative monologue of its deliberate charade,
And smiles away at its chef d’oeuvre with a selfish pride…
Its an arabesque of a thousand and one misplaced morals,
All daintily smeared with a fanciful scent of blatant truth!
This sinful hue of abstractness, ushers itself onto a pilgrimage to
The caravan of smoke that’s fabricated by her cerise lips,
And then the smoke and the sin waft away into the rain
Drenched twilight, like baubles of blue from an eternal
Brine to the welkin…
A total eclipse of the anonymous goodness you believe in!
Do you see how
Beneath the cloak of rainbow-coated altruism, an ugly
Season of the vilest of misanthropy drinks to its being?
A shapeless casuist, this smidgen of her is indeed!
And do you see,
How this smidgen is the whole of her being?
How this ‘she’ is the nameless prophet of sin in me?
How this ‘she’ is nothing but a selfish ‘I’…
- Barenya Nayak
