Ever,if we meet under the canopy of coincident
Your collars shall be on the verge
To be plucked out by me
With the 'good-girl nails' plunged into your flesh
I promise,
I'll get the red in you,out,oozed
Soon will turn you Sapphire blue
Neither your counters
Nor roughness would chase that of mine
Now then you shall be Kisna's pigment
I shall embellish a Peacock's feather on your unkempt hair design
Your hair that you've nurtured in masculine style
Torn apart and your face wet in wild wine splashed back to conscious mind
A smile for witnessing you mad at me
But anyway vengeance was mine.

The question, my friend, is not whether you have the answers;
It is whether you are prepared to heed your own advice.