On Christmas Eve while I write this
I am no fond of telling that
I have a treaty to avoid luxuries with myself
And I avoid being loved.
There is a prophecy
Which states that
No maiden will survive with me
And I am cursed to let love go.
As you might not show civility to my story as it goes
While there comes sun through the canopy of mango trees
There is also a hurry to be on time
To a home where it appears a maze of responsibilities
And also, covert spirituality happens to be at the place.
I am no fond of telling that
I do not recite fancy lines from the famous scripts
So, I am also not a famous person
And I am not supposed to be rich
And not proud to say, but I’ll also die
Making them happy who web their happiness around me.
I feel shameless enough to say
I am horrified of nightmares
And someday I’ll break into tears
In Dupatta of a merry girl
Only if she manages to survive.
I am no fond of telling all this
But some might would be needing the light to the oasis
And a light house has to be there while there are storms
That I have to pray
Also, to be honest
'have to shed off the load of hiding from myself.
Christmas ahead,
Hymns will be sung,
So will this poet surge in devotion.