I want to know how you gulp down 
An entire bottle of tranquil 'love'
In this sterile, abhorrent time!

You play shoddy game with words!
In an instant haste -
You produce opaque poetry
Using paltry nuances and metaphors.

Ah, love is not safe in your hand!
It's just a commotion - 

An erotic surge

Of your surrogate twisted mind.
You brew mundane words

Into rhyme and rhythm -
You craft love as a mere carnal thing

In masterly charm.

An ill-fated maestro that you are,

Your mesogenic soul beseeches a reprieve

From medieval diaspora of pathogenic love.

Your forlorn manic mind

And your irate brain

Fail to determine the very essence of love!

I want to ask you this brute question -
When your mingled mind

Minced and scrabble a rogue copulation

On a helpless paper -
And your obscene obsessions

Jeer and moan sadistic verses  

Within the inner realm of your malicious soul -
Don't these clever acts and episodes 
Spare you?

For the heinous crime you are committing

Nonchalantly -

Every time?

All these I want to know.

Ranju, a fading poet, found an inner voice that tells him to delay his retreat.