And My Poetry Died. Poem by Poireinganba Ningombam

And my poetry died, and mine
Heart no longer sings, as of thine
Minstrel that used to but never did shone.
What does last? A twine o' thine
That rode right, away, through this soul;
And left but a cloud o' reminiscence.
How unsame yet same whine,
We claim; for well I know what isn't mine
Shall find a way to flee and fly.

Thy heartstrings spanked mine a line-
Crossed half a dozen o' saintly shrine,
Kissed the cupids, the vows and the throne.
Drunk with dews, dazed love alike cine,
Like leveret raced I, on thy smile afoul;
Oh! How thine lock smelt o' Hib' incense.
Counted the stars, sung flamencos to rine
Thy breast to skip a beat and quine
Everything, but thou and I, so sly.

If 'tis naught as peculiar as this peine,
Of passing by and by without a sight of thine,
Of thy voice unheard; footmarks gone,
Sunk in oasis of sand wide void of shine;
Tell me not, of how to love, precarious jowl!
Oh, how does thou call it love, mine dear nine?
Hath thou naught kissed a dísir intense,
Amid the dense and the fields flooded with kine;
Whereby the breeze played choir so fine,
Thereby, Romeo and Juliet, faded sably!