Who was I?
Merely a dancer, blind in his love
But for him, the director
A little plaything, a jester
To me he made a false vow
Of a life together and how
Of ringing applause
Across the Seven Seas
Sundays in Santorini he promised
With Wine and some twirls to leave me famished
Mondays would pass by in a haze
Last night's trance still visible in my gaze
Tuesdays the torture would begin in the show
An unending stream of dance numbers would flow
Wednesday I'd be withered to the bone
Hoping time would halt, with a moan
Thursdays he'd throw me on the couch
Have his rough way with me. Ouch!
Friday the torture would begin anew
I'd twirl away my bone and sinew
Saturdays would take it a notch above
After all his crude moves he'd profess his love
Sundays in Santorini he promised
A refined poetic imagination, Vashita. You may like to read my poem, Love And Iust. Thank you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Such a touching story of a week, a wonderful poem!