Oh Woman,

when I fold aeroplanes for you
with neat creases
on thick white papers,
and,
paint three-petal flowers on them
with yellow wax crayons
which
I stole from my 6-year-old cousin,
and,
fly them to you from the corner of my balcony
so that it flies straight at you
cutting through the  cold breeze
and naked trees;

you,

pick them up from the ground after their
successful landing
with distracted eyes,
throw them back on the ground,
stamp them with your black boots,
and walk past them
with disgust
as if my paper planes had sunk the twin towers.