From buckwheat bloom to goldcup flower,
From my sill of shade, to your wealthy dower,
The junctures, the times, we came upon together.
Now these goldcups, finally had color.
Transpiring your truths, I tally a noble four,
And they, are like roses in the moor.
For you, there'll be no more crying.
For you, I can go on, thriving.
Your pansies in the yard, choired to sing,
And clover clads, don't serve the deceased.
But shuns us away, from the vile who surmised,
And tying our knot with the glories of morning.
The flag of my disposition, compels to insist.
And my body's static, begging to persist.
'Till you took the first step, willing to assist.
Over day, overmorrow,
Wherever you may go, I would eagerly follow.
Since you made me one, when I was an aeolist.
If the Almighty may endorse, I certainly would,
I'd hold your hand, reminiscing what zinnias could,
I'd squire you round the gay meads, laden with gold,
As we turn to eye the darkness we left behind.
Pondering, juxtaposed in our lore,
On the patches of green, where we once tread before.
I love all the roads we will walk together.
I love all the sceneries we will witness together.
All the questions we will shyly ask each other,
And all the answers to them in every moment.
So I pray, that He won't take you from me
'till death clads us together,
Forever, in our Eden.
Hidayat The Poet