When pillows rumour of traitorous bed sheets
the blanket stands guard to the night,
The old blanket of yesteryears
still holds fragrance of our stride.

Almost like every other day,
the night looks upon pariah moon
and the braggart stars remembers its light,
When on an otherwise windy day
your skin for the first time smelt as mine.

The lights themselves were no more bright
and the sea rode the heavens and skies,
Conspired to coup de grace, and
through boundless surge of putsch
I was held forever in a moment’s veil.

Your touch is what I live for
it wasn’t indeed a night alone -
for I am no longer the same as before;
Like sods I wear upon your open heart
for all seasons of yesteryears to behold.