You could have been more polite observing me,
Your harsh words have left
An indelible impression,
Hatred can be won by love alone,
As one gets relief from
Scorching heat
By gentle rain,
As the sermon of a saint soothes
The disturbed mind,
Your words could have healed
The wounds of my heart,
For once you touched me, felt me,
And covered your being with my love,
As you said,
You smelt my love and called it red rose,
What's happened now?
Thorns have grown on my lips,
My being has become the grave of your hatred,
Is it a diversion
Or you're posing to be more sensible?