The Curtains Poem by Rijan Britanicus Acharya

My fair giant has eclipsed my eyes
though the tints reflects too low
and I pass my youth curved like
the petals of roses and still seasoned
between the lost age (that mocks)
and oozing mirage
that drags my silence to its hide.
There I met in my luminous boon
a flowery balm....but still when I find
this uncommon thorn gushing
from the rocky slate...pricking me
like a long aged devil beceased
in the plague of a diseased bed.
I wish if I could tenderly for an age
crave a profound delight
of my metamorphosis
lifting the veins in its warmer purpose
to hold in my mellow thirst of motions
bitterly graved beneath these cold feet.
Breathing an enchanting aroma
that flutters from down where my
garden fruits in its juicy season
I pile up my thirst of walking
through the dews and softened
grasses that freshens till its roots
and keep my palms closed between
the strength of the beauty blooming
to grasp my joy crushed pale and dry.

Its a long dull road lengthened to miles
towards some improper visions
all what stands behind this weak bed
and little circumferences of rocky walls
owes what I can in my agony
see the majesties turn ruins
but battling just within my defeat
and there gleams a cold bed
decorated with the wild screams
of the dead flowers and oozing odour.

So as my white dressed man
follows me in his humorous mark
to reclaim the nerves he owed
for fifty eight springs on breezes
every night as I lift my eyes again
to see what I knew beyond this time.
His caressing and rose flamed chide
engrosses a pity in me and smiles
bursts somehow with a careful spark
and I feel that death isn't so cold
beneath the warmth of emotions.