In the few moments of past remembrance
When you are unable to delve deep into yourself
When the self seems alien
And discomfort seeps deep inside;
The hands go cold, and never warms again
Such moments I undergo, in the midst of work
When I sit in front of the glass walls
The night stretching dark outside
And nothing can be seen, except
Your own dark face reflected on the glass.
It’s frightening, the reflection that then
Does not reflect the person, but some dark wound maybe
Of ages ago, inflicted to someone else
Some ancestor, I might not know
Some woman somewhere
A constant victim to some sick fantasies
And egos, that are collective
To this worlds and males
The sins that have been gnawing for centuries
Into the society, into every history books
And into the conscience, that remains guilty forever.
Please do appreciate my sincere efforts.
