Written By Imtiyaz Pandow In the series of betrayals, I saw her - my beloved being stabbed in the back by the witch in makeup who gifted the red-soaked tulips. Am I being silenced to not counter or alarm, to bear the brunt and watch the brutal fate from stabs of the witch bruising my beloved? Yet, I kept watching - mute spectator moving on - motionless crying, but emotionless. I live in that barren piece of heart of my agrarian beloved where lovers unfurl pain in the red and dark flags being hoisted on her tomb. The stars are not dancing tonight. Moon too, stopped to shine bright. I shall sleep in the cold lap of my beloved, till the rays of sun at dawn trespass the windowpanes and reflect hope in my eyes.