For love, I thought, will never be,
Love, for another being.
For love, I thought, was not for me
To give, I thought it mine to keep.
Love, like love for notes and words,
Love, like love for strokes and birds,
Love, like love for loneliness,
Love, like love is happiness.
Love, I thought I would not share,
For love, I thought, should not deplete.
Till I found him, who loved my loves,
As though to make my love complete.
This is beautiful pragya and something not a lot of people in this world can understand. It echoes with a part that few have and few knew what it feels like to have. Read this one by Edgar Allan Poe , I love it too:
ReplyDeleteFrom childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.
Thank you so much for the poem! I completely relate to the first half especially :)
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