He sought her once beneath the mourning moon,
And called her soul his rarest, fairest boon.
Her eyes, to him, were candles in the night,
Her name, a prayer whispered before the light.
He chased her heart as thieves pursue the gold,
And swore her hand was worth more than the world.
Yet when the door of love was opened wide,
The hunter's hunger withered by her side.
The rose he begged for, blooming in his hand,
He crushed beneath his heel upon the sand.
The shrine he built became a tomb of stone;
The heart he worshipped, he abandoned alone.
Once she was heaven, veiled beyond his reach;
Now every wound he gives becomes her speech.
He did not love the soul he claimed to own,
He loved the chase, and hated what he'd won.
So let him keep the ashes of his prize;
She leaves the grave where once her spirit died.
For what he cast away as worthless dust
May haunt the hands that treated love unjust.
— Debajani Pattanayak
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem