Tempest (hers)

a poem by Prashanth

Dear Tempest, blow there-on
Do take my missive for the girl I love.

I pray my love, to be the knight
You want me to be, I sincerely do.
Not for society, not for people
Not for respectability, not for me
But for love of a girl in a far far land
With tears in her eyes and pain in her heart,
The heart she once gifted to a unworthy me.

The canvas smiles, wry and sympathetic
Paint as much, I see you in every stroke
Of the brush and of the weak flesh of my heart.

I long to rush, across the rules and wrath.
Of the countless who rise against us…
What do they know my love, of love that is.
Love that was untouched and serene, so cherished
I see you now with a cup of tea that you flavour,
With the salt of your tears, the grimace you put on
To satisfy your husband, a soul wronged.

Hurt him no further, my dear love!
Not for the sycophants, not for the hypocrites
Not for your parents, not for our love.
Love him or atleast like him
Punish him no more, for the weakness of another.

Oh Tempest! The bearer of tidings,
Do tell her I loved her, but now love she must
Her husband no other, cherish him on her bosom
Hold him tight and become precious together.
So I can see them, in the hell for myself
That I choose, but choose I will
So I can gift the honey of heaven to my love.

(The tempest was an idea I shamelessly stole
from my friend Paromita Bardoloi,
the footsteps are hers just the words mine.)