[ france ] [ love ] [ poetry ]
Wounds hard to heal, still festering:
Too many wounds for a being,
With only one heart.
The urge to love is in the soul,
Searching for it takes such a toll
On the poor heart.
Billions of years lost in matter,
Attached to our very fetter,
With a bleeding heart.
We tried so many combinations,
Never got lasting satisfaction,
Weary grew our heart.
Innumerable lovers we had,
Husbands, wives, friends and lads,
We gave them all our heart.
Looks like it was the real thing,
But it delivered a fatal sting
To the hopeful heart.
Tempted to loose ourselves in the void,
About all relationships paranoid,
Negating the very heart.
Temporary truce brought some relief,
Until the day the cosmic thief
Awoke our heart.
He steals butter and other's wives,
He steals with a mere slant of His eyes,
Especially the gopis' hearts.
To His every whim they surrender,
Like leaves in the wind they flutter,
Conquered by His loving heart.
He brings them to the heights of joys,
Born of their devotion unalloyed,
Pure is their heart.
Bestowing His enchanting association,
Leaving them in pangs of separation,
Wounding their heart.
Bittersweet is the taste of love,
Piercing like shaft, gentle as dove,
True life for the heart.