ROSES IN THE GARDEN
Something
irks,
Once
again I feel restless,
As
I see,
The
roses in the garden.
It
was last year,
In
a similar setting,
I
had written poetry.
And
she was there in front of me.
We
met,
Brought
together by a cursory glance.
Our
glances held,
Searched
for deeper content,
But
no word spilled,
my
heart’s lament
Sometimes
on that castles height,
We
stood gazing,
At
the orange west,
And
as the sky,
Grew
speckled with little lights,
She
spoke to me,
Of
distant domains,
The
abode of Gods,
Of
divine love and death.
The
days passed,
I
beside her, content,
In
her closeness,
The
sweetness of her tone.
And
the fever grew,
The
fire within me raged,
And
in delirium,
I
disclosed the scars within,
In
love of her my heart had burnt.
She
had blushed;
A
mist covered her sparkling eyes,
As
she stared at the setting sun,
A
silence reigned supreme.
In this stillness, I chose
To
pursue, remain close,
To
my fixation,
She receded slowly from the scene.
An
year has passed,
Now
alone,
I
sit in the garden,
In
wonderment,
In
solitude,
I
speak to the roses,
And
they gaze at me.
A
similar tenderness,
A
significant silence pervades.
Something
irks,
It
was last year,
In
a similar setting,
I
had written poetry.
And she was there in front of me.
