The boundary of the water, slowly receding,
To the rhythm,
Exposing the ground that it had never hidden.
My feet tapping, splashing the little there was,
Drops flying to territories unknown.
A little window on the top,
Radiating a darkness, distraught,
Wind blurring the light, the little there was.
As the piano music plays, I think of him.
A little smile on my face,
A gleam in my eye, an eye I could not see,
An eye I wish he could,
Although, it was as much his, how could he?
The music getting faster,
My feet a haze, their sound, a drone,
A tear in my eye,
Usurping the gleam with a gleam.
As the piano music played, I thought of him.
I miss his face, his voice, his hair,
His eyes.
His lips when he looks at me,
His scent.
His hands on me; on the black and white keys,
Flowing as water, caressing,
He absorbs their effect: clockwork, counter-clockwork.
He absorbs me.
As does music. His music. Him.
He is music to me.
Rabindranath Tagore wrote something similar once. Of course he must have been talking about God. Yours is so much more expressive. Who needs something "perfect" like God when the imperfect humans can feel for each other "perfectly".
ReplyDelete"The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing and in unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set;
only there is the agony of wishing in my heart.
The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by.
I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice;
only I have heard his gentle footsteps from the road before my house.
The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor;
but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house.
I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet."
That was absolutely beautiful. I especially loved the last line. Thank you so much for sharing :)
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