Dedications To The Girl With The Glasses 1, Or The Dream Of A Mad Poet-Lover Poem by Souren Mondal

Each night,
Each mornings, the doubts creep in,
making me think about you,
And I believe I exist
For I doubt if I would love ever anyone but you,

Your words, mademoiselle,
each one is like a multi-dimentional
paranomasia,
I pawned my heart for your
infinite types of ambiguity

And you,
the Girl with the glasses,
Glittering like gold
with a heart painted on an easel
with charcol,
Dark and without a single drop of
empathy,

What broke you so bad,
that you are now out with a vengence?

Many boys made you cry,
But did you not,
woman with a shrill, sweet voice
and high appetite for
pleasures received in closed rooms,
Made boys cry too?

What power,
what strength do you exhume from
keeping those boys on their toes?
Toying with their hearts
even their names?

Full of melodramatic overexpressions
and a false, vague memory,
Suffering from amnesia
and apathy,
Do you ever care that those whom
you used for your own ends,
Some Sahib for your pleasures,
Some lonely, dark, fool of a poet
to keep you entertained
on lonely nights?

Do you still play victim
of crimes unperformed,
of sins committed with your own consent?

Is sympathy enough for you?

Do you not dream of Love with a
capital L?

Mademoiselle,
Thy eyes are covered in glasses,
Thy camouflage is spectacular,
And one day,
Woman, overly-jealous, spread out like V
when the call comes,
all you might be left with
would be the scent of once a beautiful
Painting burnt into ashes.

And I would be walking upon the shores
of the Dark Sea under the full moon
Holding a child that grew up from
a painting drawn in pencil
on a folded paper,
And when she will ask
'Where's mamma? ',
in her cute, shrill voice that
resembles yours so much
I will tell Neena that you were never there,
You were her dream-mother,
Just as you were my dream-wife.

Scintillating beauty,
with heart filled with vinegar and charcol,
What did bring you down,
Or,
You were always like this?

Feigned innocence,
Feigned smiles,
Even teardrops feigned in glycerine
that you magically produce.

What are you, woman?
What do you want?