As fragile and delicate as a dew drop

Almost unseen and obscured in the grass

Until that ray caress the fa├žade.

Gleaming and glittering

As magical as can be,

Reflecting the love – I emit back to thee.


As red and fiery as a rising sun

Squints weakly, through the thickest forest foliage

Until it climbs to the zenith.

Etching and engraving

As feverish as can be,

Engulfing with love – my imprint is in thee.


Is it the heart or is it the soul,

Which feels the love?

If it is the heart,

Would there be none when ours do stop?

If it is the soul,

Then even death will not do us apart.


P.S. Is soul what we call our inner conscience? Is inner conscience, our mind?



Leave a Reply