The Last Conversation
In the middle of the day
With the twilight still gray,
Again I sat still to lament
A talk I can never paint.
And the stream of saintly tears
Are carrying away the memories of years.
In thy heart, I rested as a prisoner;
I today realise it was just a chimer.
The cacophony of words in the letter,
That thou served me thither,
Is like a mane of unruly hair
Uneasing me each time they appear.
Lesser I'm owning you , O, my poetry
And more owing for the burden you carry.
Not once left me solo even when I got smitten
But this time, the pen refuses to move.
In this pious place of cremation.
For, they assert that love is priceless
But then life whispers in its saccharine sweetness.
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