Her eyes resemble the cloistered garden, sprinkled
and ready to be played with; a garden seen
through the windows, slightly distorted by panes.
He softly drops in it; dares to pick the black rose
though the notice screams: plucking is prohibited!
Her iris spreads and blooms; engulfs and consumes
him entirely; he cannot pick the flower
he just drown himself in her prayers instead.
Like fragrance, intensely it permeates through air.
It is peace. It is God. He whispers. God is
“I shall meet you right after the vespers.” He says.
The birds are coming back into their recess.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar