Paler than Spring, plucked in the bud –  
my sorrow’s scepter 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

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