I love the hunted not the hunt.
Pursued, they want to hold your warm heart,
My trophy, gold-gleaming and thunders with love,
Proceeding from your great soul's core.
More beautiful than a rainbow.

Maybe you consider yourself a messenger,
Megaphone for the wisdom oppressed.
Fifty years now you have, wide-eyed,
Rendered the world with beauty,
And Proustian sensual bliss.

Pacing little alleys with just my passport and mauve dress
I crawl towards the dead-end, its van
And its suited men; they point and laugh.
To save myself I turn back, run;
A car swerves in, fast as a gun.

An obsidian dread engulfs my heart,
Running faster, ever fast
Underneath the emerald green parasols of Harrods.
I am the hunted now, they want my heart
Too. For being one who is kin to you.

Anarchy on the streets, I scream!
And then as if on the zephyr of a dream
You, abrupt, enter my sight,
Drifting through the pacing crowd
And I turn back, to distract the police.

Counting the beats of my thundering heart
I, coy, catch glances. You glance back.
Seeing you return, your back, head to the ground, the lady officer swivels,
Sees you! Fills my heart with dread.
I do not flinch: the questions resume.