Her husband is dead.
Tragic or pleasing news!
That too in a car accident.
She was my love five decades back.
Our sojourn was a month
In her village where I chanced to stay.
Loveliness and gracefulness
Combined, she was a lotus.
No wonder, I loved her.
It is wonder, she loved me.
She loved me more
Than I loved her, the poor.
Her love was pure and genuine.
My love was daring and fast.
Our eyes crossed and then talked.
Our lips talked and then touched.
It is the virgin love for the both.
She sanctioned my visit once
To her house and to the room
Where we were closeted.
She believed me to such extent
That she conceded to be undraped
And surrendered to my trust.
Too tender in age, I deserted her.
It took three decade for me
To trace her and meet her.
Then she was not a lotus
But reminded me of a cactus,
Aging being prominent.
Now she is a widow.
I am not a widower.
Otherwise, I would have wiped
The sin I committed to her.
Rm.Shanmugam Chettiar.'s Other Poems
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