Written By Imtiyaz Pandow
In the series of betrayals,
I saw her - my beloved
being stabbed in the back
by the witch in makeup
who gifted the red-soaked tulips.
Am I being silenced
to not counter or alarm,
to bear the brunt
and watch the brutal fate
from stabs of the witch
bruising my beloved?
Yet,
I kept watching - mute spectator
moving on - motionless
crying, but emotionless.
I live in that barren piece of heart
of my agrarian beloved
where lovers unfurl pain
in the red and dark flags
being hoisted on her tomb.
The stars are not dancing tonight.
Moon too, stopped to shine bright.
I shall sleep in the cold
lap of my beloved,
till the rays of sun at dawn
trespass the windowpanes
and reflect hope in my eyes.
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