My Jasmine of Night

In the first of its flowery years
The winter so strongly insane
A jasmine of night in fears
My window just across the lawn.

Cold ripping winds of no repute
Whizz past me to her tender shoots
Must have shivered to her root
With wind my worry too scoots.

Bereaved me off her numerous blooms
They get carried away from me
Faint some dabs with her fumes
Gifts of truce in a wink of wee.

When she sways in her quiet pains
In disguise carefully she lilts
In our distant intimacy she feigns
I cry to her to ward off guilts.

Oblations of youth this winter seizes
I weep in tear and she in flower
To both of us this coldness teases
A jasmine of night and her desperate lover.

Whilst My Beloved Talked To Me

A grain of sugar to a fasting tongue
Or a verse of a long long epic sung
A tingling ripple on a stagnant lake
Or a true gold guinea among all fake
Desert dew, gone too very soon
Or a pebble from it for the entire moon
The sunset show in a village pond
Or among all peanuts a single almond
Short-lived like a morning rainbow
Or an orange tree in savanan meadow
In a flash of a shooting star
Or a note of a flute from far
In gloomy evening a moment free
Whilst my beloved talked to me .

Tale of A Growing Mahogany

Once when I dwelled in a deep dull jungle

Dense and dark and dirty tangle

In my own right stood aloof

Dim and dumb and downright single.

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Few giant trees, villains for all

Their arrogance forever growing tall

Suppressed the nascent flowery shrubs

Deprived were they and left to pall.

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Their shadows jointly covered the forest

Each leaf each twig was put to test

To show them if they can survive

Arrested was the jest, the mildest.

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Beneath them in a heap of dead mass

Strangled even a blade of grass

From nauseating filth they drew

Their growth over youth’s carcass.

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Some vines though were very nimble

Glued to the giants away from bumble

Ate away the dead remains

Their twisted tendrils kept to babble.

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I tried to grow under one of them

And tried to prosper in the selfish helm

When trimmed were my growing shoots

I knew, it was no munificent elm.

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It’s not that I drank, in peevish agony

It is a tale of a growing Mahogany

All the while I grew my willful roots

To grow me out of this stature, Lemony.