Black Poem by Ibohal Kshetrimayum

Black was a thief,
Who stole anything,
Between pots and clothes.

Son of a pundit,
He became a thief, and
Humiliated the Brahmins.

I did not want to be a thief,
But we were friends,
Black and I.

All hated him,
But he surprised me
With his other colors.

We fell in love
With the same woman,
Who loved him over me.

I spat venom
When Black walked past me
With her in his arms,
Wearing my new shirt
I couldn't find the other day
Sometime between noon and dusk.

Sad and defeated,
With vengeance nibbling on my heart,
I returned home late.

I found my shirt on the bed,
With a note from Black:
'Sorry! I'd to look clean for her'.

On a frozen January morning,
They found his body
Hanging from a tree.

'Now he has paid for her',
Said those who hated him, but I heard
Her tears saying, 'they killed him! '

I forgave him for the shirt, and
His love for her,
And I still keep the shirt clean.