While the glass of wine trickles at its edge,
Violet dreams are often born in silk attires
When words bridge over worlds at night,
And the old lady to her silent room retires.
When black and white thoughts break even
Into the scarlet coloured wants of men.
Roses often fall short of things to be said,
While questions of what turn into when.
The meters of a song fading from afar
Blend into the whispers of my hands.
And speak to your fingers in the dark.
When time's not a metaphor with sands.
The better halves of people sleep at home
Those of desires are diminished by the hour.
What could have transpired after dusk?
But the lack of a candle and a lilac flower...
Crimson dreams sometimes die at dawn
While ink blotted blank papers are lined up
On the table in the want of magic words
And hues of dreams are lost in a dry tea cup...