It was the blemish of desire.
Hardly noticeable at first
It appeared on her fair left cheek-
A spot that had once met with
His lips, her holy grail.
'A pimple for each new love' her friend said,
Luckily, few left lasting scars
Like this one.
A woman of fine parts,
Eaten up with rusty desires,
With rage,
With self hate...
Her chaste smile never betrayed;
Her icy charm never thawed.
She wanted him to guess
By chance,
By a certain slant of words
At most.
She sought solitude
That she might, in peace,
Meditate his form.
She was irked too easily-
By the rustle of a well draped sari,
A half opened door,
A lack of fresh sentiment
In day to day chores.
She found that the beauty of love
Lies in pain...
She even cherished her monthly cramps
For they kept better faith.
He never came,
Not even when the blemish
Had finally faded.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
a pimple for each new love... that's what my tribe always say