The fall, had never, blushed like spring
Nor summer’s satire, felt sweet on skin
Would zephyr cast, love’s lasting sting
Had not you brought, those fruits of sin!
Who bathed, their hearts, in passion’s blood
Baptized their souls, in yearning’s psalm
And bloomed this lass, from a quiescent bud
To a woman, dreading, desire’s qualm!
You swathed, their thorns, with your hankie blue
Yet your care, went vain, may I daresay so
They stabbed, the heart, of this lassie, thru & thru
And filled it with, your cherished woe!
I hold to my heart, your love’s, rosary beads
My cherished defeat, your triumph’s metaphor!
May they bloom, like bliss, till my loving heart bleeds
Mortals of passion, love’s immortal seeds!
The Roses, You Left, At My Door!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra