Monday, March 22, 2010


A drop of dew slept on the bosom of the night
It cried and resumed its slumber.
When the moon ran into clouds, for a moment.

Who closed the window ajar, playfully
Where the small birds were chirping?

Who turned the word of the breeze
That was combing her hair, into nectar?

Who drew with black mascara
The dreams in her eyes?

And who made her tremulous
With those adorable dreams?

In the dusk, when the tears were drying up
Who showered the tiny drops
Of rain, on her lovely face?

Who became the nightingale amidst
The foliage on the tiny branches?

Who wrote the verse on her cheek
With a pink forefinger?

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