Umar Nizarudeen
Not for her
Ethereal glimpses
Of roseate morning skies
Not for her
Tridasan vihaya, the
Crimson trails on the parting of her hair
Not for her
Frolicsome
dips in the pond
Not for her
The pride of erect breasts
Kissed by weary garlands of marigold
Not for her
The insolence
Of tender limbs
Not for her
The tender
companionship of the blue god
Not for her
The all-consuming void
Atop mount Kailasha
Not for her
Whirlings of the Darvish, or
Perversions of Foucault, Derrida
Not for her
Swan lake on
Moonlit nights
Not for her
Rose gardens of Shalimar,
The love of Majnoon
Not for her
The Carrefours
of Shahin Bagh and Taksim
Not for her
Secret millennia
Of Amazonian insurrections
Not for her
Tombs and minarets of
marble and clay
Not for her
Gazelle-eyed flights
Across plastic borders
Not for her
The insouciant grappling
Of tiger cubs
Not for her
The cosmic dance of
Black hips
Not for her
The flashing eyes and
Slipping drapes
Not for her
The luminous bazaars
Of Scheherazade
Not for her
The jouissance
of clickety fingers
Not for her
The frolicsome Eid
Of a thousand full moons
Not for her
The adolescent devotees
Of CR7
Not for her
Feigned anger
Of reunions
Not for her
Dreaming steeples
Of incunabula
Not for her
The vermillion of freshly
Wiped tears
Not for her
The pollen grains
of Behzad and Hafiz
Not for her
The mystic routes
of Baghdad
Not for her
The miracle of
Jerusalem
Not for her
The blue mosque
Or the red one
Not for her
The pools of emerald
And jasper
Not for her
Stolen kisses
On the corniche
Not for her
Simmering anger
Of the dark-eyed goddesses
Not for her
The raging pyres
Of sacrificial suicide
For Her,
Consummatum est.
