Lies, like Statistics,
have colours,
depending on the source.

When from a distant end
the honey-dipped love of
my mother pervades like an aroma
enquiring if all is well
whilst from the embers of a viral fever I suffer
uttering “Yes, I am ok,”
muttering within in unease
with puerile eyes of anticipation,
my child comes with a silhouette of a landscape from her sapling hands
asking if hers is the most beautiful art in the world,
and I nod in the affirmative
when there could be better ones,
I speak white lies.

They bear no impact,
yet have an impact
but I carry no guilt
for white lies are like elixirs,
and do I need to tell you that love is blind
be it of any dimension?

But there are other lies,
reflecting true colours
of men, money, mafia and much more
to be soaked and washed by waters
sans sins.
No, detergents shall not work here
for they are artificial and superficial too.
Monsoons, monsoons and more monsoons!

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