She sang her song of the evening*,
But then he gave a sigh.
Her song, split into two.
One- the flight of a Siberian bird,
Unknown and endless.
The other-
Falls on smelly moist ground,
Dead, before it could fly.
Like a rose without water I will age deep vermillion and scentless. Your love I will keep like white envelopes from the past unopened under my sandal-scented bed. It is not memories that the mention of your name reminds. But a whole universe that I sometimes see when I sit and watch snow melt outside my window. Two drops of jasmine oil and two words later I remind myself this is only a poem and you distant, like a faraway place I want to visit. And say goodbye once again.
Comments
@Ray : As Ramya says, this poem can be interpreted in many ways, and by giving away what I meant in the poem, may be taking away the meaning for many other readers.
I HAVE WITNESSED&HEARD
SUCH SONGS...QUITE OFTEN
DURING SILLY FIGHTS WITH
SOMEONE DEAR TO ME....
BUT YOU HAVE GIVEN IT LIFE...
HATS OFF TO YOU..../bvarakil.blogspot.com/
I HAVE WITNESSED&HEARD
SUCH SONGS...QUITE OFTEN
DURING SILLY FIGHTS WITH
SOMEONE DEAR TO ME....
BUT YOU HAVE GIVEN IT LIFE...
HATS OFF TO YOU..../bvarakil.blogspot.com/