Do accept my prickled rose
My dear jeune fille, Liza.
Mind less, so poorly though
Dappled and tainted
By my blood, sweats and muck
As I waddled through wild growths.
It befits you not, by odd luck
I fall prey or purple water flows
Out my veins to bathe your feet
Or to serve whoever serves you;
But as heaven commands nature obeys.
Wherefrom I come and you too.
And both of us of earth’s womb
We come forth and back to the loam
As do all, the ugly, good and the bad.
As well with tramps and the well ‘heeled.
Plead you hear, if like a warbler,
My wish, as you would acquaint with
Its mellow calls, each morn grows
livelier
Till to ponder upon its verve and will;
For so I reckon, love is a thing old
That has never grown weary or wrinkly;
Ugly, but well bedecked with gold,
Blind but do all things see.
How so naked and shameless still
And over-draped with innocence.
What’s more, defiant and persistent,
else
Your prime overwhelm me and thence
I end my endearment before I begin.
True, of these discordant moulds
Does love make itself implicit and
explicit.
It’s not for a thousand souls that love
us
We sleep not and hope and dream
But just for the one soul alone, we love
Whose reciprocation our happiness is.
So lured by this beautiful aura
Of bloomful
grace and blissful prime
I come, a poor rustic youth, even poorer
Though still, among a hundred fine and
Wellborn groomed wooers –
I blindly vie to be worthy of your grace
As i scuttle with verve here amid jeers
Of folks whose whisperings wildly loom
“This
poor youth’s gone raving mad!”
But too mindless of a quick foggy pass
And soon in your boudouir, I stand
With my prickled rose having mocked at.
Ah…..already I see the whitewash walls
With wooden hangars and strings all
askew
And drooping down, flop with rolls
Of bouquets like browallia in the dew
And every space brimming with piles,
With bright hues of flower full vases;
Glossy cases and polythenes shining
bright
All of the fine flora and exotic species.
Nonetheless, do accept mine dear!
Perhaps only this rose, being distinct
As from these artificial flowers
An artwork of forgery by
horticulturists
Who I shall say are pseudo esthetes,
Knitted in France or Italy probably by
Them flouting the way of horticulture;
Sold at Kingsway with sparkles of light.
But mine is genuinely from nature.
A rose flower of a rare genus
With fine texture and waft of fragrance
Having all the magic allure
Once when fairies had shed their
tears.
Many days and equal nights I loll not,
Day by day I take to ponder;
The heavenly stars know my lovesick lot
When I beheld you like apparition wonder;
Fretful in penury, swaggered by anxiety,
I took my sickle, slung my skin and down
The woodsy plane from the forest fringe
But deeper and wider I roam about.
Yes….for a Rose rare and genuine
I scale the wild forest East towards
North
Beneath thick canopy against the sun and
moon
Except for the rays that come and go
forth.
Neither could I tell the whizzing cry
Of creatures from the weeping of cloud
But plodded on with no acquaintance of
time
Till by fortune, a rose tree I found.
Sad though, not a rose on the ground,
Round the bark cruel spikes jutting out
And nineteen feet high, eye phase bound.
It’s not a good nature to hurl a missile
At such delicate resplendence
And so it is, a fair catch for a fair
lady.
So then I sat, and many more days
Make hope and call to Saints abound
Who shall beseech heaven for my sake
By an intercessory with the Lord
As they serve him to send a storm of
wind
That the roses shed from stalk to
afford;
Yet it came not to pass as I wished.
In utter fret and lack and weariness
I decided to dare than fear the outcome
And with avidity and desperation tend
I climb up the spiked rose, all for your
love!
Here comes I then to you with ardour
This rose of which many days I ventured,
With folks resigned in help to render
And set to toll the reverse of Angelus.
This, precious than any possessions
Of which I own not, in it the veracity
Of all promises of love like a gold
chess
Within my heart most humbly I keep.
Here, have it…yes, right to be accepted.
Does smells nice, though just a sniff
Of sweat, blood or muck precedes
And worn by time too, but it's real!
What smiles of a ravishing physiognomy…!
Ah my nerve, hasten your approach,
For a rapturous embrace or a kiss!
Now your perfume pervades most
And makes me perceive beyond
The plane of Love’s wonder planet
Where only sleep or fever visit anon
By dreams or imaginings, they went.
Oh heaven, what glorious ecstasy
Envelops me now as if I shall die
Before the romance I anticipate;
But not so... Not as I define…!
Ah…So abrupt is the turn I felt
My wear twitched by the collar
And forcefully out the door sped
Soon all a reality I discover
With that resound much too odd
“Never
a crude poor peasant…”
To lose her, genuine prickled rose, all;
Her door shut a love phenomenon!
