That mirror, is the face of hers
For it tells, the half-truths, she flatters
Where the brink of glamor, splendor blurs
Is it the former that lastly matters?
Yes! Talk to that glass, night and day
Hear the echoes, you like to hear
Or read yourself in the eyes, that say
“Oh! Would you care, to be mine? O’ Dear!”
Aphrodite you, you Venus, and may be more!
Your conceit defines, infinite woman, in you
And those, motley façades, galore
That possess you, through and through
That make-up, how it makes you up, replete
A woman awash, with greasepaints, veiled
Ain’t that you, who treads, the vanity street?
That soulless ship, in fiery seas, never sailed
Her beauty, a craft, to bait, and buy, men’s pride?
Oh! What a busy day, so many chores, to close!
Let the soul of truth, creed of love, decide
Why she chose, the way, that nowhere, goes
Is she afraid, so much, to face that face?
Which is she, who rises, when vanity naps?
Who trades, a lasting lie, at the cost of grace?
And bends a defiant soul, to the point, it snaps
Now, behold that milkmaid, in the farm of poise
Milk-bathed, naïve glory, wed to modesty
In her arms, rejoice, all the seasons of joys
She, a bliss-kissed child, of love, and honesty
Miles away, lies spent here, that undying chase
Of that child of pride, on a, beguiling spree
Lost in herds, of charades, without a trace
Her myriad sham shades! Pretty! Is she?
© 2015 Vikas Chandra