Monday, March 16, 2009
There is no dispensation for love,
To a maiden who is entitled only
For a mound of earth in the end as her grave
For her eternal rest, and no rights allowed
To have even dreams, while alone.
My heart has turned into a book
Already eaten by white ants,
And could become dust any time.
When I say farewell, I have only
One memento left in me.
To give you, when I bid farewell at last;
A mind dried up of dreams, and,
A soul made destitute.
There are thousands of meaningful meanings
In the words, we have kept unsaid.
I am carrying the stinking rags of dreams
Which we shared unknowingly through withered
Lonely desolate nights and silent moments;
Carrying it like grey and pale dreams.
What is left undone is the slaughter of those
Dreams and I have to undertake that
And lay a wreath on it.
And we both part our ways in two directions
Without saying any more words!