I am loved and she is loved poems Alok

 

Long ago,
the story began
with a pretty maiden
and a faithful, lunatic man.

Entirely unknown to each other,
they knew the wishes of fate neither.
The moon was there to soothe and the Sun
was meant to shine – every morning and die in
the evening every day.

If love strikes when we desire the least to decay,
believe me all, it is meant to go all the long-long way.

And she smiled when he asked
in his immature words – should it
be the way he wished?
She said a lot in the least she said;
it was there to be understood, to be read
by the hearts that were to be engaged.

They moved together
in their own world of fancy
with walls of imagination and
buildings of faithful but improbable dreams.

Romance was ripe.
Fate was uncertain.
They met never and neither
saw what lies on that side of that curtain
that saved their wishes form the world outside –
cunning, dominating, unforgiving and also uncertain.

A man of letters
and the woman of dreams
kept their words in between
and kept walking on the road
that led them nowhere.

Love seldom works
when lovers are apart.
They need to see each other;
touch, kiss and smell the heart
from a distance inseparable even
by the bitter wind that wavers poor souls
in wintery nights with snows on the head and toe.

So, what came next in their way, would you like to know?

A sudden day – that eventful and an unending day –
that unfortunate day
they couldn’t hinder anymore and it came their way.
They parted.
The immature man with his words and tears
and the naive maiden with her compulsion and fears
unwillingly waved their hands
and took the parting grace.
But,
did the life move on at its usual pace?

However childish and immature
the loves might have been,
their souls and the love was pure
and was there to be seen.

Years passed by and they continued to live
a life full of emptiness.
The madness of that man
was there to remain
in the maiden’s heart.
The words came naturally on the papers
as the inks drew her figure every time.
The man of fancy grew with his art.
The woman of dreams blossomed with her grace.

The calendars changed.
Days, months and years passed.
If in the past I review,
years to pass were seven, aye, true.

Immaturity became mature.
Beauty flourished more and more.
Destiny that injected their lives with pain
was there standing with its part to play again.

The ache in their hearts grew.
They looked for each-other everywhere they knew
the other could be seen.
And finally she found him – counting the stars
in a night without moon. For loving, dear world,
is way difficult than being Achilles and fighting many Trojan Wars!

His eyes were wet with tears of silence.
She stood still and said nothing.
They talked with their words invisible.
Hugged and finally they kissed;
they kissed their first among silence and tears;
they kissed their first after so many years
of love and faith.

Still, they said not a single word.
She looked at him and he looked at her.
He took her hand and they walked.
With silence in the atmosphere
and satisfaction in their hearts
they walked on the road
where each of their steps was a destination.

‘And we are walking still, love!’
I said, looking at her, into her eyes.
‘And we have to keep walking, dear!’
She responded with a glow on her face.

I am ‘Love’ and she is ‘Loved’.

 

alok mishra