Like a shimmering comet tail,
She travelled across the sky of love,
Plunged in a plethora of poetic thoughts,
Hale and hearty, un adorned,
Unembellished, hell bent on seeking for love.
With freshened elan and vigor,
She would meet her lover,
And realize that she had finally met
The man of her life
With whom a family could be set up.
Alas! Another failure, another disaster!
Again the pseudo pearls had glowed,
Again the eerie silence was established
In the thick cluster of trees
And again, though the two colors met,
They never flowed into each other.
Again, her lips were kissed
Where lust was more and love less,
Where flesh devours flesh,
Leaving a taste of blood
With no tinge of love.
The touches hurt, the executioner’s desire
Bent on satisfying the desire insane,
The rain is not felt,
She just gets wet.
In innumerable guises love had manifested
To uphold the fragile experience
Leaving bitter trails of bitter insight.
L’espoir fait vivre les imbeciles, disait quelqu’un
Et l’espoir fait vivre les femmes aussi.
Finally, the Prince Charming appeared,
Having the rustic scent of the village,
With an extraordinary linguistic zeal
And gentlemanly gait surpassing others.
Every look was divine, every kiss overflowing with love,
Every touch arousing the clear desires
For an everlasting togetherness.
And they made love in the most erotic manner.
The following Sunday, they got married.
That night, she looked at the star-spangled sky
While her husband was kissing her breast
With lips firm and warm with the masculine intent.
And she said to herself,
‘Yes, this is love.’