Your words —as silver Knives
They always cut without resurrection
The tender golden String that laces our Souls
With precious beads of days and nights
and priceless moments of Affection
And every time you slash that strand
I look for tiny beads to fix it
and with each time I find them less..
I take what’s left and try to mix it
With empty looks, and closed doors
With lonely nights, and lasting grieving
For something that belonged to us
The Spring of our treasured feelings…
This time, I may add sparkling tears
And mix them with the droplets scattered on the ground
But seems this time the strand will not be fixed
The tiny clasp of purest gold– was lost… and never found.…
…
What I say is immensely important than who I am. Let the search be for the meaning and substance in my words rather than the intricacies of my existence.