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.
When love flows between two yearning hearts,
Even Gods and angels listen,
As softly silence speaks,
And softly silence speaks.....
A poet's wandering heart is precious
Only to a few eager souls, who hear
Their heart's songs echoed in his words.
That's why to them, the poet is so dear.
You and me,
Passed thirty years and three,
Through Spring and Winter, rain and shine,
Enjoyed our life, barely with a hint of a whine.
When you touch me, I can say it's you
Even if my eyes are closed.
For your palms are like text books
That I've read so many times over,
Whatever the poet's eyes see,
And his mind imagines,
And his pen elaborates,
Or whatever is written,
Where speech fails, poetry takes over.
As if like a fetus in the womb, a poem
Is born in the brain's chamber, where
It sleeps and sometimes moves about
When hurt, a person cries.
When bereaved, a person wails.
When broken down, a person sobs.
When cheated in love, a person weeps.
Love is, listening to her rhythmic heartbeats
Imagining her assurances with every beat.
Love is, touching her like the softest feather,
Going to sleep touching together.