She had often exclaimed that I was like the night
A candle light cannot claim to explore whom,
A riddle, or perhaps a crossword without a guide.
She tried to fill me
sometimes the empty lanes across me
and sometimes those deserted downward directions.
She either tried to make a way
or find an escape.
She did not knew that
each mistake of her ink
was leaving a scar on my empty belonging.
The trembling of a night in pain
has a treaty with the crust of the earth
of that of secrecy...
She did not knew that the wounded
words were setting a pyre.
My love was instead looking for life
in little spaces like her finger tips
and the sunset on her forehead.
Slowly I began to love this web of her
roaming vocabulary, definition-less.
From whom the moon borrows the beauty of sadness.
A lady who spoke so soft
and smelled like an evening flower of my village.
She did not knew that each mistake of her ink was leaving a scar on my empty belonging. lovely lines! ! ! i truly enjoyed them. Great poem :)
Wow an intense poem and i esp admire d creative lines like d lil space btw fingertips. Kudos fellow indian poet.
It reminds me of a saying by William Cowper: There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know...though impossible to decipher, but easy to give an aesthetic judgement for it's an artistic write for some lucky lady! ! !
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
it is so nice one i read.. i can see it so nice keep writing more and more poems