Ode to a lonely harp

Carved out of this sordid, withered fits of passion,
A doleful tune let me play, let me bare my bosom,
How I bent my paths to hers, sought living our secret illusions
But dared not tread the path further
As two souls dreaded to be one with each other.

Remember the wondrous moment of our first meeting
When we – drowned in the dreams to minister to ourselves
In sorrows and pleasures – shuddered in sheer ecstasy
As our thoughts each other embraced
Beguiled to soothe the souls long distressed?

She, blushing incessantly, lifted her rose eyes
And sent me the deepest stare; I sank in the wildest
Of the bliss and lay, as if in a trance – rapt and numb.
But the gloom of straining against the wind
Soon took away all the giggles the two hearts can ever find.

By the rivulets vanished the tender contour of my beloved
A confused sigh bade adieu: she must lean against a strong man,
Not be enchained by the frail arms of mine. But my harp,
Overcome by the fear of loneliness, whimpers
A sorrow – too heavy to bear, and will be howling at all hours.

Dhaka, January 20, 2016

My absence will find you

If your imagination may allow you, amid sighs
Of a wintry dusk, recall how you were silent in tears
Or hummed a line or two in gloom, in fears
That someone might peep into your soul, your eyes.

When my thoughts would wrap you in utter glee,
The murmurs of your heart in desolate place
Would hush in clamorous disdains of glad grace
My pilgrim soul it would never see.

Still, I’ll come in your memories, lie at your feet
No matter how often you forget me and lie in peace
‘Cos I’ll remember you at all times and never cease
My absence will find you, make your heart beat.

[Dhaka, December 28, 2015]

Ode to cascading melancholy

Dabbling in fading dreams, the graying desires dim
Dew mourning the death of cascading melancholy
But gather. O weary whisper, thy hazel eyes dream
Unbearable lightness; trade the myth of solitary folly?
Rise, O death pale ecstasy, thy manacles throw
Drape not in dark shroud ere courage – old
As the world’s bosom – blossoms and grow
Enwrought with mirth in the field of gold.
Hush not, my love, thy whimpering sacred breath
Tread if you may far from the refuge of quiet
Souls falling into eternity but wears the wreath
Of grandeur, not the weeping gloom of the night.

[Dhaka, December 24, 2015]