The Bleeding Self

Easy to heal are the wounds,
that your enemy with a sword sears,
when you have a shoulder to rest on,
and hands to wipe off your tears.
But the bleeding self finds no rest,
and tears fail to abate,
when a loved one cuts your heart,
with the words of hate.

I knew not this when you left the door,
beats less this heart since and bleeds more.
Another day ends without any solace,
another lonely night searches for your face.
The clouds come over to beat their band,
the drops drizzle down for the longing land.
My eyes envy the earth and they weep for a while,
as they lay awake all night thirsty for your smile.

Forlorn lies the garden with a breeze so sedate,
when once cheerfully with your tresses it played.
The stars though they twinkle as before,
the songs they sang I hear no more.
Remember the blessings on us they had thrown,
when in the garden of dreams seeds you had sown.
“Sweet be the dreams tonight thou shall see,
tomorrow when thou live them, sweeter they be.”

Derelict lay them and when they wake up at night,
pose me a question you not being in their sight,
“When will the hands return, that here did stay,
that nurtured us all along, night be or day?”
Not again this promise should break I pray,
as, “Tomorrow they will,” to them I say.
And as long as death makes not my soul free,
Here I wait for that tomorrow and thee.

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