A BUNDLE OF MEMOIRS
Which is that passion that hasten to
Turn into clouds and drip down as a rain?
Which is that note that remains in the heart
As a gossamer emotion of a sentiment?
Love blossoms as a poem as the breeze
fondles the passions with a finger touch.
Many a dawn saw me sitting down
Veiled by the morning mist, despondently
Remembering those sunny moments we had
Together, when you and me were neighbours.
Now the resplendent evening, whispers
Into my ears that we both have become
Victims of separation from our beloveds.
I used to sit under the Gulmohur trees ablaze
With fiery blossoms at the entrance of Spring
Thinking of you, and engrossed in reveries.
The Providence has decreed that we should
Never be together as we desired, and thus
We had to part, carrying the rucksack
Of our memoirs, tread in our own paths
and occasionally lick
Them like a dog licking its wounds.