See,
See the burn on the ice
Where she had set her lips;
Water that flowed down her hair
Formed raging rivers of honey and milk;
The notes she touched are still found
Quivering with delight in the mesmerized air.
She is the poet’s gift to the world.
Go,
Go, dear Verse,
Fall on her ears
And whisper the unspoken wish-
“Come, touch him,
Come, fill him;
He needs inspiration.
“He sits sullenly staring into the silence;
By his side, a few blank pages
And dried up ink;
You’ve made love to him before,
Let the fire flow again;
Be again, the gift he wishes to give.”
[my blog: http://yash-gupta-db.blogspot.com/]
