Written by Tanya Singh
Who says we are unfaithful?
Apprehensions. We had many.
And so was the stranger of nights ridiculed,
Someone said, it was not the way to start,
And we argued happily on recourse,
It became our meek recluse of the hidden dawn,
Like the dance of the ill clinking of pans in the bathroom,
Where our acrimonious polemic ensued,
Blood bath was just an irony of the twilight,
And when he shot his acquaintances, the same we did,
In our metaphors describing the fall of the morning star,
The satire was on his fated existential crisis,
Thousand grains of sand and none proved the dune innocent,
Who only stood to shelter when it rained to mire,
And we wondered what that was like,
After the morning that tasted like an
Unfaithful cup of tea and no sugar,
And we sat upon the orange tree to savour the fruits,
Which beneath fell our destined trail.
And we stole his, who was blamed for his own loss.