Old ones watching the colours getting exploited
and the sip I took
of war-fires and treachery,
tells us to sit afar.
Swayed by stories moon-shine tells you
and dreams personated by perfection;
darkness will take him and perhaps you
and will stare me from the blanket you sew.
The Bolerians sat quiet
feet tapping and minds drifting away
the tune keeps on repeating
claps and shouts- pastime of past.
Everything is not silent
as silence breezes from one to the other
glued to extra-dimension
and unaware of Bolero playing.
Fools will think they’ll speak and words will flow
For mine are tears and agony it stored
In the room of dim lights
I find joy scattered staying alone.
You itch to speak a word
Or even get something right
That time when you yield to someone
And didn’t take your own side.
Water may split into several
And the reservoirs you created
To reserve your best
And lost it to a bet when there was a chance.
Twenty hours since they had left
in the wardrobe I sat quietly
As they shuffled the dress
and drew the violence
On the floor to witness.