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The Thing Called Love ( Smita Dey Tarafder )



Olden are the times of honesty and revelation of reveries,
And days of affirming love with mere shyly smiling auguries, 
Within the deepness of dismal pathways singing the expression,
Of love, being captured by continual gaze in act of divination.

Times of this mystifying experience was cadenced in the heart,
Within the intensity of desolated shores where songs of alleys depart,
In the mid-summer fixture between singing waves and musical breeze,
Dressed in golden mask, Love- the pleasure of life did increase.

And the dame, once beautifying self for reunion with the knight from dreams,
Is now poisoned with his rhyming words of wonder world, and in solitude screams
Day dreams, the nightmares of crumpling skies over love’s clandestine garden,
Under waving wind, rushing rain and stroking sun, her fairy-tale becomes a burden.

The dreaded whisper of comfort, vanished in the dark anxiety of doubt,
As the dame’s desire was combusted, confined and spent out,
In the massive shadows of obscurity, love convexes into the elegy,
Inflaming constantly within her shut vision, the knight’s blasphemy.

The entire times hence proclaimed unvoiced tranquil and cheerless delight,
Within the mirror reflects of her monotony and verses of womanhood’s flight,
Contented indeed in love was her impaired soul, that up groomed,
Solemn in fact was she, for this love seemed doomed.

By

( Smita Dey Tarafder )

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