Hardik Vaidya

(26 Dec 1969, yet to kick the bucket. / Mahuva, Gujarat, India.)

To a lady who has a name which I cannot take.

Therefore Tillottama,
You remain devoted,
Just as I am,
To my mother,
And asI am not to your sibling,
Sacrificing the ocean of spirit between your brown,
And my black eyes.
Between your wheat bread, rice fed, golden skin,
And my apparently whiter but ever so dull white vegetarian veil,
Your mother, my mother, will all die.
Your father, my father too will die.
We or I may die earlier.
I wish you die later,
Not so suffer, but to gather,
The pearls of love I left behind for your eyes glance and squander,
Is it necessary that the chrysanthemum white,
Of our lives,
Be buried in the price tag of vendors delight!
Or can you look back,
And remember the moments of slack,
When I bought the Dadar Bazaar,
And flooded your office with flowers Mumbai had in that bizarre?
I was as poor as you,
My heart was beyond what you could reach then and now,
Take a step,
Hold my hand,
I promise,
You will drown,
I will Full fill your last wish,
And from that moment onwards there will be no poem,
Not a sound.

Submitted: Sunday, March 17, 2013
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