I watch her haste to the wine not like a
Reveller, but like a dancing eunuch after a
Long day’s toil. Nothing in her face or body
Would flush a man with sex. ‘Why is she so
Ugly’ kids so often question their bored mothers.
Her folks call her Summer, yet she drapes her
Windows with curtains of black pausing the
Yellow without. As I watch her more and more
I detest her too.
All through the afternoon she sobs with her
Quiet tongue, and at night… I hear the frantic
Clicking of an auld typewriter reminding me of
Its almost human voice. The morning with its
Expected light mocks at my blank unfinished
Paper as I quietly go through her metrical
Contributions to life. Ah! How she talks of love!
But this was supposed to be my song! Envy,
It blooms like ink on blotting paper.
My soul would cry later, but my mortal hand
Didn’t clinch a bit to sign my name for
Someone else's song.
Now Playing:: Jaane kya tune kahi........Geeta Dutt