Paler than Spring, plucked in the bud -
my sorrow's sceptre stands
bathed in the slaughter
of a thousand crimson roses.

Darker than the darkest night's brow -
the prairie of my mind is a phantom.
Will there be much left
to borrow from Life?
Hounds of Time wearing Horns
of Doom - lunge forward.

Take all that remains in my lap.
Then, Sleep! Sleep!
You too will bathe in the blood
of a thousand crimson roses.

14th January, 2000

Geeta Chhabra