Raqs-e-bismil (The dance of the wounded)

That afternoon she wrote.
She wrote poetry.
Wrote poetry for me.
For me she changed scripts.
Changed scripts.
Scripts?

That evening we walked.
We walked the same path.
Same path, different strokes.
Different strokes of a new born green.
Born green for a reason.
A reason unexplained.
Unexplained?

That night she wept.
She wept for reasons I'll never know.
Never know what she left incomplete.
Left incomplete for I interrupted.
I interrupted.
Interrupted?

It is a mad dance. I do it because she insists. The pleasures of a simple life!