poems ...

And april is no more the cruellest month,
for it breeds lilacs mixing memory and desire,
resisting irresistibly everything that is sterile and barren,
nurturing my tryst with poesy with a soothing rainfall.

The gap between my pen and paper has diminished now.
My poems are restless these days.
They waft in my breath and float in my stream
waiting to be poured like a melodious drizzle.
I have covered the distance between my wounds and my words;
my entourage has conquered the space in between;
a space that has throbbed like an uncut vein for so long,
has now reached an oneness with the
sillouhette of rhymes and assonance.

April isn't the cruellest month anymore.....
Now, my poems are home where we stay together.
I can feel the creases and imprints of you
among my lines and around the curves of my words.
I listen to your whispers along my imageries.
You dwell in my lyrics and in my odes,
you caresses the crevices in between my lines, and
I embellish my verse with your smile.

And april is no more the cruellest month,
for it breeds lilacs mixing memory and desire,
resisting irresistibly everything that is sterile and barren,
nurturing my tryst with poesy with a soothing rainfall.
Now I am alive again.