It was as if she did not know who I was,
Like a stranger whom drifted in secret beneath shy stars.
Though to me she was much familiar as I knew who she was,
Like a flower that grew within my garden behind tall secluded thorn bars.
To her I would speak words of the past of all that was,
And she would ignore what it was I’d say no matter my cause.
It was like she knew that if she refused that only I would be at loss,
But I refused to diffuse the will to make her realize the truth of who she was.
Though she closed her eyes and silenced her ears from my roars,
I gripped the walls of her confessional halls and shook her to her horrors.
To an awkward tranquil night it played like a classic epic of his and hers,
As played the strings of my heart alongside the strings fiddled from many saint’s harps.
Though still she remained distanced as if she knew not who I was,
O’ the Worlds would be at awe and fall in wars to see that she was my Venus and I was her Mars.
---S.B.
Mortaza
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