That day is the day with
rebound of joy.
She waited as I told, and had
my call.
The same flavour was in her
talk, I saw.
Her love hasn’t gone stale by
time and space.
To love out of contest, one is
contrite.
To leave any evidence, one is
afraid.
The stage of guilt, she has
passed.
The stage of qualm she is yet
to pass.
Whether the qualm withers or
not
Let the summer come to wilt it out.
30.09.2000

No comments:
Post a Comment