By Affa Adi
Is there truly a dark sighting, whose presence dimmed,
Under the lights, retching out cries from sisters nearby?
Or is it a tease by wicked, playful mind, out to tempt him,
In his stress-induced haze to dance to the tunes of lulla-hye?
Beware they said, and if I were to be greedy and not believe,
For whose face can be unrecognized and told to bite,
Will she come running, swaying, in the distance that is,
As vast as my uncertainties of whom have I met last night?
And I read the news to see, to hope for it to scream,
With a look that of familiar grave, unshaded yearning,
The hand I took scorches under the moon that gleams,
Faceless, yet she seems as dear, as lovely as she had been.
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