Like a shimmering comet tail,

She traveled across the sky of love,

Plunged in a plethora of poetic thoughts,

Hale and hearty, unadorned,

Unembellished, hell bent on seeking for love.

 

With freshened elan and vigor,

Se would meet her lover,

Thinking 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 desires 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, a dit quelqu’un

Et l’espoir fait vivre les femmes aussi.

 

Finally, her prince charming appeared,

Having the rustic scent of the village,

An extraordinary linguistic zeal

And gentlemanly gait surpassing others.

Every look was divine, every kiss loaded with love,

Every touch arousing the clear desires

For an everlasting togetherness.

And they made love in the most erotic manner,

And got married the following week.

That night, she looked at the star-spangled sky

While her husband was kissing her breasts

And she said to herself

‘Yes, this is love.’

 

pramila khadun