I lay back in my armchair,
Looking at the empty one in front of me,
Reminiscing my good old life
In which, my love, you used to be.
Tried to bury you in the ashes of roll-ups,
Tried to drown you in glasses of whiskey.
But the ambrosial fragrance of your curly hair
Like an apparition, always haunts me.
My spectacles which you used to clean with your pallu,
In your absence, shall now remain greasy forever;
The study which you'd tidied long back,
Besmirched it lies in the darkness, not a ray to illumine whatsoever.
You know, on those days of summer tempest
To the terrace I always go.
Cherishing the memories of your carmine lips,
When we shared kisses long ago.
I yearn for the sight of you,
Standing at the threshold of our room.
I crave for your mellifluous voice,
That put me to sleep like an unborn in a womb.
Without you, I'm not getting onto the Ark.
So all I ask for is an apocalyptic flood.
Life, to me, is useless now,
Better it'll be if I spill my blood.
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