A querent's cry ...

And her laugh, as bright as the sun
in rhyme ,whispering, breezing
A blazing hearth in itself be far less smouldering;
under the filtering lights of a crepuscular dawn
like red crayon shavings ,
myriads of blossoms piping in,
and the cuckoo's ruby eyes catching flames within ;
With only the white cheeked babbett flitting
to record her autumnal auditions,
listened to our duetromony.

Like a japanese parasol , I watched her moves.
Serenading in the monsoon showers, on this damp earth.
Me squelching in the darkest hour of my deepest despair
I'm with her ,
the gulmohar tree , humming a soft tune
to rest her glum with mine
How the 'ber months saw her standing stagnant
a garden rake, combing the blue skies ,
clearing swallows and Cottonclouds .
Her flowers I tread upon moseying a dull moment
When we spoke about the ages ringed on her barks
And mine, ringed 'neath my eyes
We both know the reason why ,
we don't complain.

She bleeds her sorrow in crimson blooms
hanging out in sheer glee,
like a querent , crying out to the stars , selling her fortune .
I'm stained and scarred in perfection, a key to my ethereal beauty
Sorrow is not sadness, I affirmed ,
It's a row with my soul. How should I connect , nevertheless .
The gulmohar tree screams in its saffronic canopy,
Making me colour my agony,
Deeper than the orange hues of the evening sky.

NG.2022
© Lizbeth