Paler than Spring, plucked in the bud –  
my sorrow’s sceptre stands
bathed in the slaughter
of a thousand crimson roses.

 

Darker than the darkest night’s brow –
the prairie of my mind is a phantom.
Will there be much left
to borrow from Life?
Hounds of Time wearing Horns
of Doom – lunge forward.

 

Take all that remains in my lap.
Then, Sleep! Sleep!
You too will bathe in the blood
of a thousand crimson roses.

 

14th January, 2000

                          

Geeta Chhabra