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.
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