The Song Of The Soul Poem by Trivarna Hariharan

Those crinkles under his eyes, spoke of laughter.
His whisper, my song, an endless symphony of love,
with all its incoherent staccatos resounded in my heart
like an unforgotten song that has left an indelible
scar on the soul.

His verse, a mark
of my sanity, escalating from piano forte to forte
before finally making its way down to mezzo forte,
waltzing and tangoing,
all at the same time; stable, yet so quavering,
became a repository of sweet nothings to be cherished
for a lifetime.

His mellifluous voice, just like a baffled
fruit waiting to ripen, stayed eternally graceful and
ethereal, as it drew its way from adagio to andante,
ambling along our little sidewalk of dreams. Never dashing.
Never hurried. Soft, elegant steps of affability.

Just like the sound of an overture playing against the backdrop of
vintage wine pouring into a cut glass. Smooth, yet
tasteful. His demeanour, replete of
zeal and vivaciousness that transcended
the bars of meaningless rhythms to trace the
origin of melodies, sunk in with the resilient
largos of my phrases.

The legatos mingled with the staccatos,
the adagio with the andante, the base,
with the soprano, beautifully, yet articulately.

A saccharine, poignant, mortal piece of work,
That had into my heart found its way,
Rendering me grim and pining for more,
Long after it had receded away.