Stain Poem by Anuradha Bhattacharyya

As long as you keep
Imprisoned in conceit
There's no holding hands;
Pleasure not for me
Where it stinks
Of old Narcissus.

If you said it was your desire
And not your yielding
To an inferior's wish;
If it were not your reversing
Your lust into mine
For self-deceit;
If your pure blood
Worshiped chaste union
Of two equal spirits,
Then, oh, surely it were bliss
In entwined sleep.

My violent heart-beats
Fret me too much:
Things are amiss
Between you and me
As yet.