If love is peeling oranges, then 
God is the transcultural smell 
residing inside crescent of fingernails.
Consuming prayers, 
a bead of fragility in hands, 
he tells you that :
In love we are blind, 
In love we are far sighted.
His delicate crockeries inside 
a filthy broken sink is 
his metaphor for us.
The way he scrub them is his
synonym for violent love 
and antonym for soft grief.
Once in a while,
the shards of his anger 
turns me into a silent film 
suffocating under city lights.
Then you change into a morning 
with mourning ,
Into a ship torn under monsoons,
Into a broken concave mirror,
Into a prime number in solitude,
Into a black hole singing opera.
Still we exchange kisses with words 
inside  the holes on our throat. 
God chain smoking in his evening gown
interrupt us with a question, 
What is your religion?
This is when a love letter switch into 
a propaganda poem 
written by plum faced angel for 
both oppressed and oppressor.

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