The Gypsy's Suits Poem by Subrata Ray

I know, I know,
No marathon we would go,
No birds of paired wings,
We ever flee and sing.

From dynasty's harem you came,
Me a Mongolian slave jump,
Our union, a moment's fusion,
Neither a promise nor erosion.

What was said, what was paid,
Forget all collisions.

The evening stars, have no bar to rise,
We are what, only to start,
And never we mind for a prize.

Our changing bed rooms,
Smell malty grooms,
And yawn for rest, a while,
Oh! No we simply go, and beguile.

Are we young? Are we wrong?
As the sun and the moon of no choice,
Are we shadows with no age?