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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I Between Juliet and me Devotion thrived . . . We stayed all day and all night In dark, hidden places, picking watercress for the moon Together we lived, Juliet and I, Among worm woods Friendly gardens Doing silly things, Avoiding the city’s hastiness, Befriending rural life, Hiding behind palisade fences Among stunted grass, Waiting for sunset’s glow to light up The dark paths of our stolen love. I remember us running talks with Anne of Green Gables On the greenishness of a stable summer. And when the church bell tolled For the vespers, We ran across the external nave, Our faces frowned with shyness, Thinking? we are full of ourselves. . . And I loved her And I loved her name And still love it. Fret not, O’ Juliet But read to me Like you read, that memorable Friday night You and I sighted frescoes on the rapier-thin Rim of dusk’s azimuth. II I sang your songs, O’ Maria, In the days grandfather lived and smiled on With his broken front tooth stained by age and sageness Your narrow, sweet face paled and showed signs of the Dim past I do not know who you were, dear Maria I did not know you deeply, But with strings straightened across hard-bending bow, Earthen pots, Grass-flutes, And ivory samba, I have discerned all that happened to you Through ancestral lyrics laced with drops of love. In those days, There lived Maria, Mother of sons and daughters, And she had dark eyes and dark lips And teeth whiter than clouds . . . In those days There was confusion and strife But Maria made the best out of them Because she had love so fragrant And her soul bled with devotion And every word she puked had love in it. Trenches, valleys, gullies And images of blissful youth Blended carefully, forming imposing pictures Before her charming eyes. Her name pokes my ribs gently And she knew well how to write love-letters Some of which have been reserved in the museum of Memory where they eternally reside, The cellar of the soul Rolls of parchment, browned by time, Season the words of love in them stronger. Here, my vigil candles Have ceased blinking And have glowed the more —like the Curved ends of the crescent moon — Just for your name, O’ Maria.
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