So we photograph this time round
A bunch of earth lamps, seemingly
Rising from a sea of oil, their flickers
Lighting fleeting faces in self -love
In the moonless night’s inky setting.
Flame moves up -down hesitating
Like the Adam’s apple in the throat
Before one’s acute embarrassment.
We catch windy moments of lamps.
Lamps have light moments from oil
Against full-blown moon in balcony.
Earth’s oil hardly lasts an hour or two
For an immortal romance with wind.
You see they are born martyrs to love.
They always die fragrantly like love.