Three Cons
A
Abdul Wahab
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Like a thirsty bird
I look at my mirror
For a drop
Of justice
In return
He gives me back
My own face
Hiding what I hold
In my head
The images of love
And its sorrow
And pain
In my distress
I sought help from my shadow
He follows me
Everywhere
Copy me in ditto
But cunningly he conceals
The fire and the colour
Of its flame
Lighted by
The drizzling rain
And the melodious
Thunder
After being dejected
By the above two
And being a bit
Tuckered out
I ask reality
To spread a sheet
On the ground which
He does
But he steals the cloud where
I kept the sketches of my wish
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