SONNET 153
By JH Sayyar
You will be stolen one day I fear,
Your eyes dacoit; beauty is a thief,
Of pious hearts, smiles tell me dear,
A long list of your doings I do brief.
I call you your parents’ cut purse,
Steals their meat I know not how,
You perform; that night I curse,
Now forget you a childhood vow.
Like a whore promise life is short,
I am burning a candle in the shrine,
Melt slowly like a mourning heart
In the graves earthworms may dine.
I may die but the words I do write,
Never until your sharp looks bite!
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