A sonnet written in response to some comments on Pillowtalk, where some bloggers thought the protagonist, who they confused with the poet's self, hates all women.
Many a muse, wise or ruse, with benevolence,
give me my ardor, my color, my fragrance.
And wouldn't I be just a stem or a tube
if I weren't I, by their cares pursued?
The young like morning, like dew decorate me
and the old, like evening shawls lovingly drape me.
I waltz in their gossips, till they go out of breath,
and bathe in their torrents of sorrow and wrath.
Each season they bloom fresh fancies as me
and praise their ideas, they represent as me,
calligraph with my limbs, Rangoliyan reverent,
and present me to friends, as trophies gallant.
I love the women as blossoms love the spring,
Ah! my lonely winters make them more charming?
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