She smells of seedy attar, as she lures past, the busy town
Swims bare in bacchus, brazen, shies the sun to drown
Her glory, inked in slurs of shame, to a riot of thoughts, akin
By a bawdy bard, who gave her the name, “An evening bathed in sin”

She slithers by a body-shop, with ten and a half women
Where beasts of love, devour spent souls, again and again
Beholds the fury-lit, whiff of flesh, whence the orgies begin
To end anew, and then enmesh, in an evening bathed in sin

She squirts in veins, venom of night, at the hooch-shack
Barren bodies, minds and souls, strapped to strings slack
Puppets of her sly diktats, stricken spirits, laugh away, chagrin
She mothers all forsaken brats, that evening bathed in sin

She sneaks past the fellas, on sidewalks, puffing grass
Half-seduced new puberty, broke in escapades crass
She jibes, “Voila! My bold broods! Take it on the chin”
In wily ways, see, how colludes, that evening bathed in sin

She slumbers in the paupers, what more, but flesh and bones
Lay ten dozen ill selves, by a stinky sewer, she barely bemoans
Her creed, to seed a fear in souls, and breed its sorts, therein
Ages spent to fight its tolls, what she extols, that evening bathed in sin

Thru with dusk and night, to the sun-up’s sight, she fades
In the trail of the queen, nothing lost yet, past, she quietly wades
Ebbing attar and bacchus’ spree, semen smears, of the last orgy
Blatant boyhood gleaning weed, dole-happy mendicants’ plea
Shrewd she, glares back achingly, “Again, I sin, to play, and win”
Return does she, by the dire decree, that evening bathed in sin

© 2015 Vikas Chandra