Traces of tamarind still left over,
anklets brushed against exile's door.
Love held close like dying incense,
fallen and torn, yet full of vigor.
Faces once familiar, now too far,
eyes of council—a malignant star.
Trying to tarnish, to cut the thread,
duty a burden, and words a blade.
Feelings refused to grieve or mourn,
to drift apart, though hearts were torn.
En route an entourage, wild and free,
a soul undone, yet not by heart's decree.
Smoke of gasoline thickened the air,
masking the flame of the lovers' lair.
Ashes piled, like dust on the floor—
infused as one, like a melted core.