The poem and its petals,
The poet and his tears,
Laced and draped
Over every word.
Like love had a story to tell
For the reader’s sight
Upon page, drenched from pen
And a fragment of shelved sadness,
Deep in the poet’s mind.
He falters upon her memory
To see what should not wake up.
For she sleeps so peacefully, so beautifully
In the stillness of a new moon.
Love stagnates, in each droplet of a tear
Down to rain, upon the page and its grain,
Upon the page and its pain.
What feebleness has grown, upon the poet’s arms!
And what fragility
Has decided itself, to show a misery.
The poet and his mind,
Has grown weary, like his kind,
To see the felled wastes, upon her trembling grace.