Irony

In my sky of four clouds

twelve winds play to hide the moon

my love sits on the pock markers

where coal mines blast every noon.

He was selling dreams

sat on golden chairs, legs of sunny beams

I hated  him for he would paint me,

mixing diamond dust with ruby cream.

I left him at the coal field of life

to  darken himself in sweaty grime

to bring food for my hungry bones

to walk in streets of shady zones.

I sulk he carried pans of fire

worked in earnest in swampy quagmire

but he was in moon singing his love

I slaved in mills living in alcoves

Today my face  is burnt, hands frozen

he makes rhymes like pizza tokens

the clouds recede and winds fall

he shows the moon like roti standing tall.

Sabita Sahu