With many a dance beat You had come
Unto my paltry hut,
Late upon that night rain-washed.
There'd been no oil or matchstick;
A lantern did not blaze to raze the dark.
In secret had it been, Your going and coming,
With divine game to inflate my sobbing and laughing...
Granting a mute soul leave to speak
In hurricane and hailstorm.
Advent in stealth and exit surreptitiously,
Acquisition of a flash of light momentary...
Afterward I'm singing songs, based on memory,
To forget an adverse thought.
Sarkarverse article
Audio recording
Lord, I've had enough... none can match Your love for sport.
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