My Stella 72
(Returning to self)
She is a delightful self,
her image doth reflect unseen
monitoring of vastness.
Unwavering is her temper.
She is an angel from unploughed field,
divinity is ever wistful to cuddle
in her booking.
Her eyes are like formless rostrum,
heart is thoughtful with cypher purport.
She is a delight hugged with breezy pall.
Her mind bloated and elated with sense uptake,
She walks like a beauteous flamingo,
calm, sober in a placid course.
Words are incoherent and sweet,
inaudible and mystical.
Her heart speaks through sweet vowel.
She is a painless penchant for my
heart addicted to serene shower.
She is a flowery feather figure,
diffuse fragrance of an instantly burst blossom.
As a formless Joy she sleeps in silent stone,
hillock and moon flushed,
As snow clad pinnacle downpours fictive
Rhythm to downright mind withal,
as aching sweetness of a lover at the
blooming years of efflorescence,
She sleeps in the tranquil sphere of
my inmost tenor.
Sleep she rooted in my self and all consuming
mutism caulks false, empirical reasoning.
I am back to my much recollected state,
The heart of my stella,
the sublime pain of my existence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem