Tag: poem

Agape

Published on by Harpreet Chhachhia1 Comment

AGAPE.

Love is God’s nature.
The Greek language has a word for this kind of love, agape. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary gives agape this definition, self giving loyal concern that freely accepts another and seeks his or her good.

Written for the novel that I had begun, entitled the same.

The Burning Star tore out the sky,
Bloody Time made thee sing
A song of truth for those who die,
Against Power and his King.

Thou were taught to fight for thy own;
Take an eye for an eye!
But the Time of Hate has since flown,
And somewhere it will die!

For what reason the Fight, when he
Who thou were meant to hate
Is bound to thee by Love’s decree,
Writ by the hand of Fate?

The Burning Star showed thee the way;
The Song thou had to sing –
Of the brightness of a brand-new Day,
And the Love which It did bring.

26th August.

My Love Threatens.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

He grows away from me!
But why do I even care?
What? Why?
Years have passed, haven’t they?
I should have escaped Love’s snare!

Love made me compromise!
And always I was the one cheated!
My heart proved cold initially –
Was always the one to get slowly heated!

So much heat that, on reflection,
Makes me the fool!
As his warm heart flitters down
And he gets to play Daddy Cool!

I bare my fucking soul,
In this fucking love game,
So much so that my fucking pride,
Keeps forgetting my fucking name!

My name! That I’ve created
With such arrogant determination!
And now it rests in his hand
Bearing heated flagellation!

It comes finally to this point:
Where he threatens with an illicit fuck!
My heated heart finally realizes!
It is finally out of luck!

(Tragic.) But the question of Hate
Is never out of Love’s circumference!
The opposite of both creatures
Is flaccid Indifference!

Because my whipped heart is still warm,
I struggle to hold it up at the stake:
What? Why?
Let it cool into feeling nothing?
Or just let the feeling thing break?

A Love Grown Old.

Published on by Harpreet ChhachhiaLeave a comment

Seven falls have come and gone.
Life has pressed us paper thin.
The seasons pass and love rusts;
Indifference comes creeping in.

No touches now, no parting glances,
No cards or sentiments on flowers;
No tender private smiles
To ease the pain of the passing hours.

The hours! Oh, the hours
Hasten away and my body grows cold,
While I wonder if this is true
Of a love that seems to grow old.

Grows old with my ageing face,
With those young eyes now morose,
Over a lack of interest,
In a love, in captured repose.