The Black Spot

With the music and food with the proportionate blend,

With the farewell party and my career’s end,

I got up from the bed, and poured a glass of water,

On my head, to get out from last night’s hangover,

With an partially processed thought,

I took out my white shirt,

I observed it with a shock,

It carried a little black spot,

Was it saying something to me?

Or was it just a dirty stain?

Was it somebody’s soaked blood on my collar?

Or was it just the washer man’s pain?

For whatever reason it came to my mind,

But it was surely my life’s gain,

As it tells the saga of all my deeds,

And accounts for all the sins I refrain,

It reminds me of the Muslim man,

Whom I locked up in the police cell,

In the case of the murder of a minister,

And given the torture that was utterly grim,

But was he actually the one to be blamed?

Or because the Law says,

That someone has to be held responsible,

So preferably a Muslim was to Framed,

My focus then shifts to that big celebrity,

Whom I allowed to drive, while he was drunk,

As he paid me some currency notes,

I still wonder who was to be blamed,

For the people he killed that night on the road.

Is that black spot referring to my malice?

Or is it laughing on my solace?

For all I did, Oh! My dear Lord,

There’s one more killing added to it,

Which is the very human you seeded inside me,

As for all those mishaps, I was the only perigee,

And if someone has to be punished,

It is none other than me.