She Knew of the Thorn
Serene as a
water-lily
Quietly reposing
upon a stilled stream
Her days do not
change, her hours have ceased
Around her;
stagnated, the wind.
Fingers hesitating
ever so slight
She unclasped the
pot of ills
Unaware of what to
find
Brazen courage,
unknown sin.
She knew of the
thorn
Yet she approached
the rose blazing
For love to
blossom
Blood would flow;
pain to be borne.
With caution, with
even steps
She crossed the
threshold, towards a ripened age
The northern
zephyr dashed by the grass
Cold, biting,
bitter to the skin
But on she
ploughed
White raiments
protesting.
A young knight she
had seen
Upon his golden
head, a crown of brambles and briar tendrils
A sword through
her chest
The apt gallant
she had not met.
Poppies turned
scarlet
Wisps of daisies
flew away; withered, the steadfast violets
To the ground she
fell, mulberry-strewn
Stained dark with
distress.
Beside, the
fountain gasped heavily on
The wisteria’s
tears rained upon the lotus leaves
The garden
swimming with her grief.
To sludge and mud,
the pond transformed
The reeds dared
not gaze down at her saddened face
The willow bough
bowed deep before the despairing marsh
With wounds,
harshened; a heart
Butterflies and
birds chiming a requiem
Loud on the air,
by Death, silenced.
Serene as a
water-lily
Quietly reposing
upon a stilled stream
Her days do not
change, her hours have ceased
Around her;
stagnated, the wind.
At the candle
smouldering on my mantlepiece
I gaze without
rest and beseech
“Will you not show
me the same dream,
On this night, the
next and yet again?”
The sea pales
Her black hair
spills, timeless
Like an enduring
onyx fountain
Cascading without
restraint.
I care not for her
face
But the surges of
ebony that call me to bathe
For they billow
gently, frail as a feather’s brush
The locks kind as
the wind’s embrace.
Oh, she bears much
power
The tresses
conceal her mien; a warrior’s grace
She creates the
world and annihilates
Flecks of the
rising east and the sleeping west
Dancing upon her
silken strands
Lunar hues birthed
and ended as tidal waves.
I shall wait until
the sands have fallen from the hourglass
When will she
murmur,
“O Dearest
Albert…” My humble name, when will she say?
Should a storm of
nightmares ever strike
Her bare feet will
take flight from the shore
How then shall I
earn the courage to kiss
Those locks, a
weaver’s pride, the finest of dark lace?
By the coast, I’ll
stand, I do not wish to wake
The wick’s
blinding light shall only ever blare
Where shall I find
soft, satin curls by the ocean’s bass?
I hope to caress
I hope to dress
Wherein are the
pearls and shells
To form a wreath
around her head?
Oh, the obsidian
curves
Evenly plunging
I long to touch
the misted hem
The edges disappearing
as fog fading away
By the foam and
the drops pirouetting as sprays.
Closer and closer
to her fluttering braid, I inch
With each dream,
my soul being wrenched
Deeper and deeper
in love
Let me inhale her
marine, briny scent.
Just her hair,
merely her hair
Passion blossoms
in my breast
For the
undulations remind me of a veil rippling upon quivering lips
A woman’s mourning
shroud
As she searched
midst the rill of stars
For her
betrothed’s home
Fervour alive in
her chest always
Till she perished
as silver froth neath the wails of the gulls
Happily lingering
for her Albert’s returning hulls.
Dibyasree Nandy began writing in 2020 after completing her M.Sc and M.Tech
degrees in engineering. She is the author of 'The Labyrinth of Silent
Voices-Epistles from The Mahabharata', 'Stardust: Haiku and Other Poems',
'Studded with Rubies; A Hundred Short Stories', 'Meteor Shower', 'Fireflies
Beneath the Misty Moon', 'April Verses', 'The Terrorist's Journal', 'An Upset
Inkpot' and 'Magic of the Eventyr'. Her individual works have appeared in 75
anthologies and literary journals.
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