No love is as overwhelming and as pristine,
As the maiden love of a lass, say of sixteen.
When, like closed petals of a bud she begins to unfold
Herself, blossoming into a fragrant rose or marigold.
She seeks a hand to hold and wants hers as well be held,
In secluded privacy, from the outside world as if shelled.
She wants to love and be loved, to touch and be touched,
Promises never to leave the hand that she fondly clutched.
Standing on the crossroads of childhood and puberty,
She seeks a soul mate, not one who is always flirty.
She feels lonely at home, even in a crowd, or among peers,
Unless with her soul mate who keeps count of her fallen tears.
Promises everything that her soul mate wants her to be,
She herself also demands promises on matters flimsy.
Not realizing that promises are easy to make but difficult to keep,
Broken promises are hard to bear with, easy to make one weep.
Sometimes the lass' love remain held back and suppressed,
When she is wary that her emotions will not be addressed.
Flames of this unexpressed love burn her in slow motion
Whenever she muses over some missed conversation.
Lucky is he who wins the first love of a lass, in solemn trust
Pity on him who misses the offer, or throws it into the dust.
When a life's journey is begun hand in hand with no suspicion,
The two unsuspecting souls will no doubt reach their destination.