Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar Poems

Pity is a kind of love
That you must experience;
Doing so, you cleanse your soul.
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A child imitates its mother with air.
An adult imitates models to seem fair.
A child imagines a child in a doll
And enjoys tending it with fantasy.
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My hands are uneven;
The one that seeks is long
And the other that lends is short.
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You are the second one
Whom I love by my heart
Without seeing your face,
The God being the first one.
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A woman of passion married a king,
Who, a widower, fell for her beauty.
Consumed by passion, madness in heart,
She could not but love his son, so robust,
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Romance is a chase. Both will stop doing
Once the pursued one is in the pocket.
Man skips romance soon after marriage.
Wife minds it not, getting proprietorial role.
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A mother to her son is no more a repute
If her modesty is suspected.
A wife to her husband is no more cute
If her fidelity is suspected.
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Man, you might be richer with wealth
But I am neither poorer,
With my bowl content with contents.
Man, you might be stronger with power
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The depth of love
Is the height of jealousy.
The height of love
Is the depth of pining.
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I count, I count, I wield, I wield
And I will leave, my presence felt.
It’s ego’s cry.
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