Category: Written in 1996

The Same Moon

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The brightest stars twinkle in their places,
In the cloudless, dark blue sky.
On warm earth the flowers lie
With a dewy sprinkle on their faces.
The breeze sifts in a soft lullaby;
A nightingale croons: “Not him, ‘tis I.”

The lover sits beneath a leafy bower
Reviving a memory,
Of what was destined to be.
Remnants of it fall in a wary shower;
Wisps of an immortal mystery,
Of what is to be or not to be.

Always so distant and never too close;
Neither the ground for flight,
Nor the question of might.
Always the sun gave way as she arose;
The same love at her fair sight,
The same moon for us at night.

“The rape of youth, by cruel fate and time”

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

The rape of youth, by cruel fate and time,
Long since negates the sweetness of those flowers;
Betraying love and murdering the rhyme
Which tells of hope surpassing deadly hours.
Those flowers you gave to me are red, the red
Which’s all that’s left on a virgin bride’s bed;
Those flowers you gave to me are soft and bright;
Tomorrow, tell me, will they please my sight?
Will those petals shrivel and lose their hue,
Or will they remain so – to love just me?
Oh, no, do not reply. (I know those tears, too!)
Those dew drops upon those petals I see,
They fade, e’en now, before my wary eye;
‘Tis best not to know that e’en now they die!

10th October

“The stars have filled the dark’ning sky with white”

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

The stars have filled the dark’ning sky with white
And silver sparks begin to shoot around;
The breeze shifts through the trees and sighs, at night,
For day allows it no audience, no sound.
I move at leisure on rain-kissed pathways
And wonder whether the breeze loves the trees
It whistles through; for, during lonely days,
It rests under the sun, above the seas;
At night, returns home and sings for the trees.
Sometimes I ache to see this lone affair
And weep to know there are locks, but no keys
To hearts that will not open, never tear.
And then I see the rustling leaves and know,
And then I feel the breeze which cancels my woe.

10th October