Come love, keep your hand on my handAnd your lips on my lipsLet the clouds that lean against the skyCome down in torrents
Down the dust-laden pathsLet incessant rain bathe the treesAnd drown the voices of the birdsIn the mirror of a forlorn river in some dense forestLet your face be anglow, drenched in sweat

hmmm!

When did the dove teach you
With its sad forlorn voice
Your laughter is the wind on the advent of monsoon
In your sprightliness lies the ripples of the river
Where blooms the water hyacinthThe soft, delicate fingers and the wrist like lotus stem
The baton of the loom quakesAnd the weaver’s shuttle move ceaselesslySoft, delicate fingers and the wrist like lotus stem
The baton of the loom quakesAnd the weaver’s shuttle move ceaselesslySoft, supple breast, pinkish lipsTeeth like pomegranate seedsMy world without you is a desert friendAnd you’re the source of my poetry