I dared, to knock, those dead, damp doors
To stare, at smirks, that, bared to me
Ever more than, my, manhood’s metaphors
Was staunch, those whores’, raw vanity!

“Why whores, are wetter than, Bombay’s rains!”
I saw, on their shrouds, many menses’ stains
“Deflowered spring, now, no more, pains
Only, sin’s monsoon, is what, now remains
It blesses, us now, no more profanes!

From where, sprouted, these farms, of sin
Were, manly needs, their, only seeds
Still in, immortal bazaars, of skin
Lust strings, love’s holy, rosary beads!

I moved on, with, my pilgrimage
And, my machismo, in, my coffin
Yet, celebrate, rage, of outrage
Those, Black And White, Twilights Of Sin!

© 2022 Vikas Chandra