If your eyes be mine, then let me be blind;
If your voice does belong to me, strike me dumb;
If your fingers my thoughts expression find,
Then I have no need at all for either thumb.
If your garb befit my limb, they are my guise;
If your beauty is naught, then have I ill-complexion;
If against your desires, let them all be vice;
If you are my Muse, you are its only reflection.
If you be the trill, I’m the nightingale;
If you be the wind, then I am just the spark;
If you are the laugh, I must be the wail,
Then because of your light I need be the dark.
Where am I, you shall forever exist;
For, for the one’s lack, either shall desist.
The beclouded moon, humming a mournful tune,
In a panel of grey,
Crisp leaves abed, on a ground that’s dead,
Pave a solitary way.
A harp that’s silent, in a world that is violent,
Speaks of life today;
A listless expression, on a face in depression,
A humourless sway.
Beauteous Nature barred, from lives that are charred,
Of their very substances;
People do seek compassion, in the guise of passion,
Betraying all nuances.
They welcome greed and nothing’s left to feed,
Their hungering souls;
Rising out of wombs, they are ghosts from tombs,
Just wandering fools.
Trying to find peace, in this worldly alcove,
Is not an easy task;
Trying to evade all, as hearts start to fade,
Behind the darkest mask.
Entrapped within lures, that have no known cures,
That have no escape;
You hope to find a heart that won’t ever depart,
Leaving your body agape.