Cycle of Cliches
The eighth was at Kolkata Airport smoking zone.
If you see her, give her this poem:
There’s that fireball in the south-west,
in a homeward spree,
wondering “What now, at the end of the day?
I say in jest, “You and me!”
I turn away from the yellow shroud:
and it’s your hazel-eyes I see.
Sleep woken or dream broken,
entangled or untangled,
love burnt or hate soaked,
praised here or blamed there,
dealt with or dealt in