The Moan of a Veiled City

The fog and the chilly wind,
Can never puncture the wheels of this city;
Every morning I take a bus to smoothly sprint;
But that day, my mind was wrapped in a quilt;
The ashes of the gruesome week mingled
With the stench of that living corpse.

She died a thousand deaths.
The shreds of her body were found
In many cupboards and bags.
I searched in my bag for lip balm;
But the staring eyes of the men in shawls
Hydrated my lips with sweat and fear.

The battle between the rods and Gods is not new;
These rods are sharpened in buses and matrimonial sites;
But this war would not end in an arena;
The self must be loved for the self to love;
The burning candle or the blowing wind
Will teach us to love the calm bodies.