By: Pramod Rastogi

A Cup Full of Sorrow

There is a call from my love.
It has touched a chord in my heart.
Never has she called me before,
Monsoon seems to be not far off.

Wilted flowers are looking revived.
Faded scent has taken on aroma.
The temperature has cooled a bit
And I am not stifled by the heat.

My life, draped in colors of gloom,
Distills daily a cup full of sorrow,
But each sip I take makes me full of joy.
I smile at my cup empty of sorrow.

Life continues in its clamor.
Though nothing has changed in my banter,
Yet I feel years rejuvenated
And want to go dancing in the streets.

My love has honey in her voice.
She wants to meet me, she said,
And I explode with joy at my luck.
We have walked a distance together.

We are affirmed friends of our youth,
But she could go no further, she said.
As her path had diverged from mine,
Left was I with my cup full of sorrow.

Wooing the Wind

The rising wind sings round the graves
To enter the city by back gates,
Where streets are empty of all haste
And lovers in gardens up-to-date
Conspire coyly with light and shade.

The wind roars hard into the square
Bringing many smiles to share,
And many miles the farmers wear
While wives are singing romantic wares
Praying spring will not turn threadbare.

The wind makes a winding bridge
Across the crofts of cold storage
Where lies in shade a herd of cows,
Groves welcome a windfall of flowers
That promise new hope to villagers.

The wind, now past the village church,
Climbs up the slope with much goodwill
To cross the hamlet and reach the hill
From where the sea beckons new horizons
Wooing the wind with rich salt footprints.