Midnight passed in fight. It’s night. Morn, some say.
The room’s tube bright, Lata fills the back ground.
You sleep: for mother waits at break of day!
(Here I wait for you to make any sound.)
I am dark and you seem to be light.
Each consumes the other – no middle ground.
Do we wait for chaos? The Last Day Fight?
For Nature to let us loose? Hold us bound?
I write. Lata sings. You sleep – or do you?
I don’t move to check. Each seized already
In wicked persona struggles – flu, too.
Emotions are far from being steady.
You grunt, I sing. I dance, you look away.
Love has come. So how do we make it stay?