Poetry
The pearl in the oyster
She sings, she becomes the song, she wafts in melody
. . . and she rises, in sure degrees, to tell me she is
Melody.
She is my song, she is the melody I play on the strings
Of my soul.
She is my soul, the keeper of its rhythms, the arbour
Of its wildest dreams and its purest songs. She is the purity which touches me even as the skies
Pour sparks of passion on the earth.
She is the water that bathes my heated emotions, water
Which springs from the primeval core of Creation.
She laughs, the echo of which stretches from the
Ends of the world to the farthest reaches of the universe. In my world of monsoon winds, she becomes my
Universe . . . she is the ripple in the pond of experience.
There are the ripples she causes in the witching hours
Of the night, the fire she ignites in the woods of
My field of romance. She is a fireball in whose heat I burn, over and over
. . . her spasms of energy shoot themselves into me
And I know then how ardent shines my love for her.
The drooping stars in the western sky tell me she loves
Me. She calls and I rush home to her heart
. . . to fold her in my arms,
To ask her where she has been all these ages. A brilliance explodes on her lips.
I dream of the lunar moment when my lips
Will graze hers, will press into her sensuality . . .
To let her know
We belong to each other.
She is the pearl
Nestling in the oyster in me.
. . . and she rises, in sure degrees, to tell me she is
Melody.
She is my song, she is the melody I play on the strings
Of my soul.
She is my soul, the keeper of its rhythms, the arbour
Of its wildest dreams and its purest songs. She is the purity which touches me even as the skies
Pour sparks of passion on the earth.
She is the water that bathes my heated emotions, water
Which springs from the primeval core of Creation.
She laughs, the echo of which stretches from the
Ends of the world to the farthest reaches of the universe. In my world of monsoon winds, she becomes my
Universe . . . she is the ripple in the pond of experience.
There are the ripples she causes in the witching hours
Of the night, the fire she ignites in the woods of
My field of romance. She is a fireball in whose heat I burn, over and over
. . . her spasms of energy shoot themselves into me
And I know then how ardent shines my love for her.
The drooping stars in the western sky tell me she loves
Me. She calls and I rush home to her heart
. . . to fold her in my arms,
To ask her where she has been all these ages. A brilliance explodes on her lips.
I dream of the lunar moment when my lips
Will graze hers, will press into her sensuality . . .
To let her know
We belong to each other.
She is the pearl
Nestling in the oyster in me.
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