Sunday, March 27, 2011

'Read Between the Lines': 'My Pomes'

It’s not like the lonesome tall mountains yonder,
Made from hard lifeless rocks and boulders,
Strenuous to climb,
The proud peak when attained by the climber,
Only makes him feel very lonely at the top,

It’s like the silent, yet lively underground stream,
That perennially flows,
The brook, the river that eventually becomes the brine,
As untold love for her beloved grows,
Forever with time,

It’s not like the countless flashy stars in the night skies,
Speckled all over and show up with a wink here and a blink there,
But never descend upon its admirer’s eyes,
Who wishing upon these stars, dreams aplenty in his heart bears,

It’s like the lush green grass beneath the feet,
One treads upon the meadows,
Embracing the feet of her beloved all through the path,
Yet remains rooted firmly to the ground,

It’s not in the alluring voice of the songbird,
But in that silence which waits to be heard,
It’s not in the wanton waves by the seashore,
But embedded in that calm right in the middle of the ocean,
It’s not that sunshine that brightens the entire world,
And hides away when night gradually descends,
But is that flickering earthen lamp that slowly lights up the dark world,
With the oil called love,
In that relentless wait, the epitome of patience,
The embodiment of love....

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