I Marvel how Touch touches me
I marvel how touch touches deepest chord,
That rest of senses scarce can ever match,
Time heals old wounds, touch stays on for long stored,
And leaves a sign, a lasting mark to etch,
I marvel how touch deep feelings doth fetch.
Take the feel of mother's hand on forehead,
A garland of hug never going cold,
The feelings linger, for lifetime are spread,
Say of a first-born in father's arm-fold,
I marvel how touch retains its rare gold.
Yet, touch is no feel of a naked skin,
Nor yet is it beastly in her raw rage,
But springs from emotions welling within,
And akin be to spirit's pilgrimage,
I marvel how touch suffers no old age.
No use has it to a feel-not inert,
No melody can bestir a mute soul,
Touch touches heart, oft raw nerves to cause hurt,
A hand on shoulder, no more, hits the goal,
I marvel how touch ever plays its role.
A grave mistake be grown-ups' touch if gross,
A touch of flesh can soothe or be great sin—
An intent ‘tis that holds a Sacred Cross,
Skin knows if a touch is malign and mean,
I marvel how touch stays forever green.
The same way a man embraces his wife,
As he may hug his daughter or sister,
It is the intention, the edge of knife,
It’s head that a hornet’s nest may bestir,
I marvel how touch ever does matter.
If I feel down and out, nigh as if dead,
I need words, flowers nor fragrant blossom,
Nor have I use for a thousand words said,
Give me a tender hug, a warm bosom,
I marvel how touch my deepest chords strum.
If bare touch be what should more than suffice,
Wary I am of an invading face,
A touch can be warm, colder else than ice,
Unwanted foothold in my private space,
I marvel how touch commands so much grace.
Give me clouds in summer, brightest rainbows,
A soulful melody, smile of a child,
Butterflies and flowers fresh from meadows,
They touch my inner soul ever so mild,
Yet marvel how touch can be so defiled.
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Quintain (Musings) |02.09.2007| touch
Copyright ©
Aniruddha Pathak
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