The lines of melancholia
Are still read
From the bible of moments bygone
While the ambiance of that hour -
Still maintains its open-handedness.
But like the dirty abode of a dying hermit
The barren heart of a desolate poet
Waits not for your return.
Not even when time permits you.-
You are wearing my dear,
A cover,
Over the skin of your emotion.
Undress please --
To see your heart
On its shores of beauty.
There lies a garden
So lush,
Behind the towering fence
Of your barren heart --
Open it.
Over the surface of your beauty,
My dear,
Flows a river of merry --
Bathe in it.
The early rays of morning sun
Compete,
With the shimmer
Of your luscious face.
Don't you know this?!
I saw several devotees
Around your salubrious temple.
My only prayer is --
Almighty! Let me win this.-
She announced his death
Before his demise,
Then he chose paper
To be his final abode.-
I send verses of poetry
every morning
As messengers to your city
And thereafter
Burn incense inside my room
To remind me of your perfume
Which once I inhale --
Loose my sense of location.-
The verses I recite,
My entire poetry --
Are but messengers to your city.
Beloved!
Show me the road to your heart,
I want to rush into it
To quickly
Plant seeds of commitment.
Will you guide me?
-
After you left,
My heart became the graveyard
Where love stories are buried.-