Valentine's Day

Cupid shoots his arrow
through the heart
it bleeds
slow
painful
death.

She walks along the shore,
picks up an oxeye daisy,
runs her hand at the back of her skirt,
straightening,
sits on a rock,
muttering,
"Il m'aime
un peu, *pluck*
beaucoup, *pluck*
passionnement, *pluck*
a la folie, *pluck*
pas du tout *pluck*
The dead flower, not even allowed to have its petals.

He approaches his love interest,
requests a kiss,
under the mistletoe,
a poisonous plant
that showers the gift
of nausea, diarrhea
and even death.

Romeo died.
Juliet died.
Heer died.
Ranjha died.
All those who love die.
And those who haven't,
are they truly in love?

And people continue to ask me,
why I dread Valentine's day?
And I continue to tell them,
will you attend your own funeral?

Nirbhaya

It casts a pitch dark shadow on the easel,
The broad canvas with its banality of white.
And brushed thoughts coloured of teasel,
Proceed to violate what's considered right.
A face emerges; product of this violation.
But devoid of signs of divinity,
Shapely bosoms take place of the eyes,
Then her curves, navel and femininity.
Year after year, more than half a century,
Men stood in front of this canvas,
Unable to discover their mind's enemy,
Lacking faculties to understand thus.
And year on year, seems like eternity,
This painting continues to paint reality.

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This poetry is based on Rene Magritte's Rape ( http://www.renemagritte.org/rape.jsp ).