Geisha: A poem by Mousumee Baruah

Men compliment me.
My fair, flawless, face.
My ohsiro makeup, chubby cheeks.
My crimson lips are so alluring.
I entertain them at the banquet, serving high tea, champagne, full of the aristocracy, etttiqutes.
I am a perfectionist to the core.
They love my music, dance, love my attire kimono.
Compliments galore…Cute geisha you are!
Snow white, doll, they call me, geiko, gegi but mostly geisha.
At the end of the day, I unmask myself.
 A geisha from the land of the rising sun does not want to rise and shine sometimes but wants to set somewhere in the solitary horizon.
Away from outside drama, plastic smile beauty, razzmatazz of superficial world.
Nobody talk with me, they chat with geisha.
So I talk with ichika means a thousand flowers.
 Many men flatter geisha, they know not me,ichika.
I am a normal girl inside, with yearnings for true love.
Will I ever get a man?
Who will ask my name?
A dream desperate, to be ichika to a man!