with petals,
she has moulded me into a rose,
and now one must wait,
as my garland of flowers,
is slowly put to rest,
and I must lay sweet nectar
on her grave,
for she made me so sweet,
but like a rose,
I spit with my ribbed edges,
with thorns etching at fingers,
I must lay her to rest,
with bulleh shahs’ poems,
with bismillah at my tongue,
red eyes,
for I will have lost another cutlet of my heart,
for when she goes,
I truly,
wallahi,
will be left,
and then the test will begin.