The Angel.

The angel came to the virgin,
Amidst flakes of white snow;
To the virgin, who lived in joy,
And knew not what was woe.

The angel came to the virgin,
And hugged her in his wings—
Just like the Swan did dumb Leda—
And taught her earthly things.

The heat melted the white-bright snow,
Tinting her lips with red;
As the last flake melted, he left
But feathers on her bed.

She began to think, to but cry,
Tears, tears, instead of snow,
Replaced angels with mortal men,
And battled against woe.

Tears.

Tears . . . tears form in my brain,
But do not reach my eyes . . .
(Perhaps I love in vain,
For I know all love dies.)

In memories that last,
They cling to words spoken;
In thinking of the past,
Bear dreams that are broken.

They scan each vow you made,
Imagine each part of you,
See each vow, slowly, fade,
With no existing clue.

They cry, helpless, in pain,
For now, although each tries –
Imprisoned by my brain –
They will not reach my eyes!

To Anand

In the heat of the sun, you came with me,
Forsaking ties that could bind you right fast,
And all that I could think of, so vainly,
Was if what you feel for me could e’er last.
You looked to my feet, when I looked ahead,
Trying t’see what destiny has in store,
For your thoughts, so simply with actions wed,
Were to prevent my falling down once more.
In the dark, you held me with promises,
Since I wept, for I would not see you soon.
Oh, to make them last! Those words and kisses
And that coolness of that pale, summer moon!
But, I trust you, so I write this in rhyme:
I’ll let my heart follow love one more time.