I look past the grey,
before the night’s cold blue.
It’s only been a minute since,
now I see a silhouette grow.

From,
behind the curtain,
the curtain of death.

As I search for the outlines,
of her warm tender lips.
Its shy sleek shadow,
emerged from the shallow.

From,
behind the curtain,
the curtain of death.

A leap from comfort,
leaving her earthly raw scent.
I felt, Wounds from her past,
reeking about her wrist.

From,
behind the curtain,
the curtain of death.

Why still?
This gold laced needle.
Why still?
Weave this toile.

To stride the way,
the only right way.
To be present today.

- Aadil Varsh