It’s been more than a fortnight since I picked up my pen,
A tear on my face,
A drop of ink in my pen,
The line I wish I wasn’t me,
Reviving the poet inside,

A betrayal committed,
Not to a lover,
Not to a father,
But to a mother,
For the sake of a lover,

A picture taken,
A laughed shared,
A life lived,
Eyes glowed,
Smiles appeared,

That night for my lover,
But this night I stand in the realm of my guilt,
I do not regret the crime that was not a crime,
But the heart wrench of the lady whose ***** I once wept on,
I was not myself that night,

I was Flora,
And He was my Das,
And we stood undressed for love,
But was it love,
Or was it foolish,

Was it my happiness,
Or my mother’s pain,
Was it my laughter,
Or my mother’s tears,
I shall not know,
My heart tears itself apart