Saturday, January 3, 2009
Will the thirst in the heart be quenched,
By merely looking into each other’s eyes?
Is it possible to suppress all the longing
Of the youth, and contain them
Only in the hungry looks, which are exchanged?
What is the use of the pollen in a flower,
If the butterflies and the flower remain aloof?
Why is the honey kept in the flower,
If it is not around with its proboscis?
Life is the branch of a tree, where
Small dreams roost to rest in the night.
You came in my life like the soft ripples
Of a brook silently , but with quaint whispers
And smile and a song cheerfully;
Caressed the scorching shores of my dreams
Moistened it with your life and embraced it.
Inebriated like an earthen pot drenched
With the wine of your passion, kept inside;
Gave me handful flowers of dreams, but all
Made with papier-mâché, that could not
Share even a speck of pollen from it!
What ever I saw in the chariot of my dreams
Were images made of clay and were not real,
But replicas of House of Wax idols.
My sweetest imaginations hovered around that figure.
Flattered, she drifted from me smiling treacherously.
I discerned that those sculptures lacked
The heart and soul and was a robot, then.