In the crooked streets of love,
I was beaten—
left,
right,
centre.
Yet I remained standing.
I was naive
when she said,
“Chanda, I love you.”
I believed her.
That was my error.
Women do not love.
They perform.
Love, in their hands,
is a theatre.
A mask worn
for survival.
Her words were sweet.
Too sweet.
They entered my soul
like water,
then poisoned
the well within.
I looked into her eyes
seeking truth.
I found illusion
She was not a companion.
She was a test.
An obstacle
on the road to awakening.
I do not blame them.
Nature designed them
to survive through charm,
through softness,
through deception refined as beauty.
A woman’s love
is a shadow—
it moves,
but it does not stay.
A man’s love
is substance—
it gives,
even when it breaks.
In pain,
I understood:
To admire a woman
is to admire a flower
already dying.
Beauty is brief.
Desire is blind.
And blindness
is costly.
When I left the illusion,
I saw clearly—
True love
is not in romance.
It is in blood.
In origin.
In the one who gave you life.
My mother loved me
without performance.
My sister loves me
without strategy.
There—
truth lives.
To men, I say:
To love a woman with your heart
is to surrender your throne.
To love with the mind
is to remain king.
Guard your resources.
Guard your soul.
For the game is ancient.
And those who do not see it
lose.
Do not hate them.
They are the flowers of the world.
They decorate existence.
But never forget—
A flower is admired.
Not trusted.