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*Secret love, two searching eyes*

I
The early morning's languorous mild sun 
Seemed jaded from a nightlong tiring jog, 
And liked dawn's dew-mixed mirth nor glee of smog,
Nor some stray passing clouds' hide-and-seek fun, 
Nor yet was keen for croaky welcome calls 
Of fowls from dunghills on a lifetime lease 
Behind a river bank's wilting old walls, 
Where lived some roving vagrant families. 

And when I walked past the river's frail flow, 
Its parched sands thirsty for a good monsoon, 
Still grew some melons in humid hot June— 
Both of them— red and marigold yellow. 
But my eyes weary of the routine scene,
Searched for a fruit seller’s eyes mildly green.

II 
And searched only her eyes on river bank,
None of melons on sandy silver bed, 
My sight strayed from sun’s temper getting red,
So did from dry scenario still so dank. 
Not even her, but just two tender eyes 
So pensive put upon frail little frame 
Of a girl ten or twelve and of no name, 
Two vaguely lost eyes staring at blue skies. 

Innocent tender eyes for her raw age, 
Her folks— let them own too frenzied a fame,  
She scarce conformed to that furious image,  
Unfair, for fault of folks, poor her to blame. 
I had no clue nor any a surmise, 
How magnetic can be such soft-hued eyes! 

III
But magnetic eyes they were, felt my heart,
And she, poor girl, wished just her fruits to sell, 
Not else knew, nor had anything to tell,
In fall, to dream of spring as is apart!
But this school boy to and fro river bank
Can’t forget her— statuesque on sand dune,
Nor yet her eyes in a frame lean and lank 
On that distant summer of raging June. 

Her school-girlish eyes vaguely appealing, 
Compelling me to look if just once more, 
Which, oftentimes would I from a far shore,
They remained still largely unrevealing.
Saving the stares  of friendly ridicule, 
My mind talked to her all the way to school. 

IV
To school and back— a dream disturbed scarce dies  
If there’s in mind densely wooded what if, 
If only I knew secret of those eyes, 
If only greener turns that autumn leaf. 
On way to life, hard turns a tender heart 
With so many unresolved ifs and buts, 
As wisdom weighs from greens to aim short putts, 
One puts it all behind and all apart. 

Yet, subtle impressions live beyond life, 
Some memories whilst die with body’s death, 
Their sharp edge getting blunted as of knife, 
That secret love of her eyes’ still a faith 
Which, sometimes wakes me up to poke some fun, 
Nigh languorous when dawns misty mild sun.
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