He plucks a flower from her hair
finds her soul embedded;
‘I’d rather have a flat for us,
what will your father spare?’
The waters crunch into the night
soaking up a tremble,
She takes his hand upon her cheek
‘I haven’t had a bite.’
The moon is pale upon her smile;
stomach gives a rumble.
She bites her hunger back a while-
fingers start to fumble.
A mighty fort two marchers seize
set proud upon her breast;
A voice shatters all their ease:
‘My groundnuts are the best!’
The grinning fellow settles there
but sees the marchers flee
she pounces down upon his ware
with barely hidden glee.
The stars are witness to the act
a brittle tune awakes
Amidst the ocean of the crowd
it’s passion mixed with tact.
© Shreekumar Varma