Revolt

Someday my heart will bleed for you and I will go to buy a flower of exquisite color That does not bloom in the earth. I will make Wind of the petals of that flower and decorate Your luxurious hair. It will go on playing with Your dark lock releasing its fragrance to my Courtyard where I will be dyeing like An undernourished poet counting the dead leaves Under my feet. I hope you will not say no to My request of releasing the wind into the void So that it will bring back many more famishing Poets to you. Now I am young and you call me An old poet. What will you call me when I will be sleeping below the earth and your memory Will be fading away like a wisp of smoke From an incense stick from the mind of young poets.