One Who on the way of love go by
listen and see
if there is any grief, as grave as mine
and I beg you to only suffer me to be heard
and then reflect
whether I am the tower and key of every Torment
- Dante Algheiri
 |
| Dante & Beatrice TO ALL THE BEATRICES OF EVERY POET |
The moon is quite glowy tonight. And the old pond with moss looks like molten ice cream with thick green frosting. But in fissures the pond leaves for the moon to reflect, is like an opening that moonbeams cut through. For the pond too wants moonbeams lurking in waters below. Just like the thoughts of you which penetrate through my mind and bring shimmering light. Shimmering light that puts my thought long lost in darkness and the the memories that were so death back to eccentric life.
The darkness around me-spare the light from the light-posts and a shop I just bought this pen from-is so noisy, in its own mute and mild nature, and the stone bench I sit on is so cold. The cars drift on every now and then. It is a busy city, Kathmandu. It's 2o'clock in the night. With their speed quite make out that ,well, its a good time of the year to drink and drive. A car, big, black and slim and so lush, passed by and its screeching tires yelled as it stopped. This car takes me back to when I first met you, my Beatrice.
For in the same lush, big car that has stopped to pick me up, i went to your parents day of your school. It was a nice show, and the commotion to it was even more greater. I dont like a huge bunch, I am often a loner, i think you've noticed. But I sat down patiently or walked out of the big auditorium It was quite boring for me. But the show was nice. The show was nicely scheduled,adequate and had little to do with me,so it was not for me. I would've approached you then-although we did talk for moments backstage on a black couch where I was dishonoring the mighty god of music(the guitar) with my ramble and ignorant playing. You didnt seem to mind. It was all fine by me then. I would have approached you a lot earlier. But didnt quite help because of your running away was not at all very encouraging. But we never stopped talking after that did we?
So midway upon the earth, I sit in this exquisite car-not mine, just some guy way older than me who is fond of my poetry more than me- the heater warmed me up, but then again, memories of you began to warm up my soul.
You are quite a warm person. Warm indeed. For your voice melts me, and my words. So I could never speak clearly with you. And your giggle is like the sound of the wind chimes on the free wind for me, that of pure music. And with all the utter surprise, the wind never bothers you. You complained of the sun and said you hated the rain. But never did you say anything of the wind. The wind is quite your element, for you took my breath away the first time i saw you. Near that pond, which the wheels have taken away from me just a few minutes ago.Then and there my heart skipped a beat. But you never noticed, as it had happened. Right there, near the pond were we met after so long. Words have powers that are explainable and unimaginable with a lost of mysticism converged in it. Its like all the answers of all the questions are given by words, dissolved in emotions, immersed in thought and indulged with the worldliness. The worldly words. Them I have used much, and every syllable pronounced by me was a gratitude. Really, a gracious implication for being able to handle my boring, random and worthless conversations. I doubt still that if I had really made you laugh.
But the did keep you up all night, didn't they? Well if not, then I guess my boring conversations are very particular to its victim. My sincere apologies.
Apologies, I have showered upon you. For my boring conversations just now, and an ample times of misgivings and mistakes that were quite trivial-i agree to it now.
I had apologized for the time we had met near that pond. I was happy the, for you had waited. I would say "Thank you!" in the most distinctive way the order of the words could go. But instead the situation implored me to use quite an easy word. A magic word to replace magic words. A much more easier one, indeed.
"Sorry."
I was late there. And to add, I haven't used that word with the same person at the same time for the same reason. Quite a life changing factor you are, My Beatrice.
Ha!
I guess you didn't even know what I was apologizing for. You didn't seem to mind much. That's just me my Beatrice. My actions just don't make sense to me.
***
Here I am now, under the bridge. A little further from here we walked. I could see somewhat anger in your face that day.
The steaming bit of it was that you covered from the light rain. You complained and grumbled for the rain many a times before. And you were sure it would rain that day. I was sure it hadn't any possibility. And my predictions on the weather being true, on which I am highly sure about, have never been so. The rain loved you it seemed. It fell lightly, on the ground, sweeping of the dusts from the mud and stones like a brush sweeping out dust. But then your umbrella went shut. I could see the irritation in your face. It tried to freeze in. And the rain just came down so tenderly like it only moaned for your touch in tenderness. For it and for i guess every celestial to existent being, your touch is elegant. And its approach it downright, as it falls downright, and is down-rightly beautiful. Mine touch would be misunderstood.
All i could do out of jealousy from it was to provide you the canopy of my warm palms. The only warmness i have, from which's heat only words come out in black ink.
You remind of the rain, my Beatrice. The rain is so elegant., and is always so true. It just endevours everything with elegance, sometimes scornful, sometimes angry, sometimes soothing. And sometimes so cold. For the rain is so elegant, as elegant as you. And it is built of an phenomenon, as the lavender sky changes its color when the cotton clothing clouds erode into dark and deeper shades of grey. They break to fall. And the day it seemed it had fell, only for us. And thence it was that you said you liked the rain, from then on.
And when you caught my hand as we passed by the sidewalk,well-I have no words for them. Let me give a better off description. When i could feel your palms, your warmth. A chilling started to swirl through my chest, like it was a cold breeze in the long summer days. The warmth that soothed, only you have that, my Beatrice.
Again, when you hugged me though, the sensation was unexplained by me, incomprehensible by you and deadly for my thoughts. I could feel you. Your chest against mine, and your chin on my shoulders.
And then came the night again, when I was caught by the frenzy more than once, twice, or thrice. But for six times you had hugged me. With all the utter despair, and the lust, shinning through your eyes, and if I was at longing then as i was but didnt show, then it would be quite inconsiderate of me Beatrice. It was night, and you had to go. You had come running from home, panting in perspiration For me, a luckless young man. There was beauty in it, in-compassionate to my sense, but beauty that exhilarated in the uttermost of expressions. As i could see your face was apologetic. That you were late, that I understood. I waited for the sundown, like i promised i always would. I hadn't any resentment towards you. For you I longed to see, and prayed. I wasn't sad, my Beatrice. I was glad that you came. Rushing and panting, maybe yes. But what not had i found just in one sight of you in the moon-lit night? The sight of you in the spark of the skies, in the shades of the vague dark sky, in the glow of the green moss of the pond, and your embrace. For it seemed that all the heavens and the earth conspired, to bring me this night. And your perfume filled my head the henceforth.
Nothing compared. Nothing.
But I couldn't take it, and I let the embrace of you go. Although i spread my arms around you, to feel you again. To take in the warmth you offered with delight, to seek refuge in your thick hair, to inhale more of the air that shrouds you, for which is so nearly to my heart.
But I stopped, for my embracing would get you late. I thought I had put you through enough. With my boring conversations and uninteresting ideas I pull off.
So I withdrew for it. And i guess this angered you. And you rolled your eyes, and left. Cold winds scattered by when you did, like it implored me to bring you back. I couldn't do much in the gravity that the air beholden in the moment. I just caught your hand. Wrong move, for my touches are misunderstood.
But i guess i was being to hard, and you looked at me, and i could see it in your reflecting eyes, the reflection of anger. To none but me. I died within, and let you go.
I stood there, and said nothing. But till you were till a distance, all I could say was sorry. "Sorry" being the last word of the night with you.
It died, Beatrice, it died somewhere. My emotions there died.
And I stood there for a while. Thinking to myself, if i hugged you once more than things would be different. Things would be so distinct from what it is at the present. Things could be so much more, than they are, as they lie with us. These memories are of sheer regret for me. I am ignorant of yours.
But i stood there in patient waiting. Something within said you would be back. You would be there, and would be telling me when to see you again. When i could be put at ease with your warm smile and your gentle hug, which would remove so much of the anxiety i feel now, to this day for not having hugged you. Quite a punishment you give, my Beatrice.
And when i waited for you silently there. You did some back, and there was somewhat radiance in the face of mine which was dark and ready to sink in my chest.
I thought you would say something sweet with the voice that could melt not only words but even thoughts. "Just go!" was the last words from you that night.
No one could make those words sound soothing, in no way sweet and in no order possible. In every language, it is quite opposite of sweetness Not sour, it hadn't no taste. It was inedible sort of taste. Like air in packets of chips. The one we shared during holi.
***
Of all the scholastic personalities that i have encountered gave me the same philosophic technique. Save the best for last. But if the best is in the but end, what fun would it be?
Holi, colors, you, water, the terrace view of one of the most ancient sites of the Kathmandu city-the capital of the Lichavvi Kings, Vishalnagar- and me. Now to think of it, i can write a book about it. About the single day.
All I can write down in a prose only i could understand, and you could too. For i believe you noticed me, secretly adoring you and your elegance for the very first time. My poetry then began with you. I was just thinking of it, amending those words in my mind, and when we rubbed colors on each other's faces and poured bucket fills of water, i couldn't help but get the feelings of chill, like the one we get when wind chimes move in the free wind. How could feelings not arise, not blossom? You have been my poetry since. And ignorant as you were then, and as you are now, you have become my Beatrice. But i, was preoccupied with words running through my mind, was lost somewhere, so i made an excuse of my lost cell. Just to fake a distraction(my actions make no sense, remember?). I was lost anyways, in those dark black pupils. Your skin aglow when you washed those colors off your face. Something in that terrace shone more perfectly than a pearl on the shimmering sunlight. You.
Your cheeks in their rare redness always drove my senses crazy. I always loved and adored them. Remember how i left my jacket? That was on purpose. Just to see more you. I was crazy, yes.
I didnt know what to tell you. And my words never came clearly to you. The confusion that this fusion of you know not getting me and me not coming clearly created a phenomenon. This built the highway which came to a dead end on a hill. And we both were on the either sides. We never could understand each other.
But regret not, my Beatrice. For even I dont understand myself.
For what am I? A philosopher hanging out with never-do-goods. A religious guy in love. Honestly, i have no idea who am I. But I know who I am when I am with you.
***
Now the latest memory of you.
Not so pleasant but true. You hit me on the head. And said(commanded) a three word command. "Put that down."
"What?Why?No!" was my three word reply.
Nicotine doesn't erase memory as the scientists say. It refreshes it. And i followed you, and kept apologizing(now to think of it, i do that everytime im with you.) and think now, that there should always be a guy that should remind you of your elegance. I just wished if i was him. But he is somewhere perhaps. Where the distance of the highway diminishes. I think you are closer to him then you shall be with me. And i know, my Beatrice, of this you dont care.
But I do. Ha!
So here I am, so close but so far. Right here, infront of your house, where i had once spent Holi. Not to see you or anything. Its the darker side of the morning in which the sky seemingly wants to cling to the deep purple shade. Like a numb wound. And i wouldn't dare to interrupt you. Your elegant sleep you once ignored for me. And i do but fear, that this elegance will be lost from me.
But off am i again. To the the pond I guess the tadpoles aren't there. It's a winter morning, and they have settled. Like my dark feelings and thoughts are.
I will put them to rest now.
And come walking here,in front of this idol of the mighty Hanuman, where i bid you a good night. And hoped have i to see you.
And well, with everything i have endured, i still cherish your memories and your elgance. I hope we meet soon. This was just me refreshing out on those memories and thoughts, indulging with the thoughts of you.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You didn't show today, Beatrice. Guess the highway increased its length, by all dimensions. There is no shade in this warm winter night. Warmness, yes. The eccentricity is paranormal. The dismal thoughts are inhumane. Surrounded by smoke, under the florescent bulb hanging on this lamp post, I write to you for it is the only object which helps to out-pour my grief on these pages.
You said you would be here. Is this some old resentment? Have I wronged? Agree, I do. Agreements are not my virtue. But I agree with this bitterness, that this is reality. That you didn't come.
You said you would be here. You said I couldn't see more of you, but you would be here. How could those elegant words from sweet voices become so false. The tadpoles swim more on the surface, on the verge of outbreak as I know.
Address these curiosities Beatrice. Had you forgotten? Or at least of your care are my approaches. To have the warmth that soothes. If not by will, then by being the only wish of it. For it weeps in black ink. This sorry poet.
For yes, I've been a fool for you. I thought i would leave with bitter memories than we had before. Something i could cherish. Keep them near to me, as i have done with you and all that i find in your essence. But i forgot the distance. You never got me, but always had me.
And now, the answer to your question.
Your inquisitions, and my very honest reply.
Why you? That's not the question, my Beatrice. Why not you? For all you are to me. No one has ever defined beauty to me, and has altered the feelings of despair. I've always been a different person. No one can cite the oneness of me. But you did, as you brought that oneness in me. The oneness in my troubled heart. If divinity is is what makes god, you are what causes this oneness, Beatrice. You are way beyond cherished in my eyes then any feeling, for you bring peace.
That's the beauty in you. When i first met you, none of these lurking feelings beheld upright and point to you and directing to you in discreetness that you were it. The oneness of my heart. So when these feelings lurked, I had instantly asked your question to myself. And i found the answer when i was with you. With one of myself. With the me that was with you.
I adorned you, and decorated you in my memory. Yes, this answer killed my humor when i was with you, because i was so nerve-ragged when i discovered it to be so. Like a dead fish on a downward stream, i flowed along with the slow water. Aimlessly falling, falling for you. Like the smile i aimlessly try to put on your face.
Why you?
For my aimlessness is my very dear wish. It is my aimless desire to keep you happy, and smile along. The nearest wish to my heart. I wish all for it to be true. Your happiness is all that matters. For this oneness you bring at my heart is happiness too. And like its obvious now, I'd like to return this happiness, this oneness. So this oneness of you could be the oneness of me. Again so, that when you are happy, i could smile along.
Hard to be possible,huh?
And still so, I am here, looking at the black sky and searching for the stars. I can count them, they are so few tonight. It was impossible to see you, i guess. You are beloved and for all by luck Beatrice. I might as well be all ignored by it.
Bestowed upon you be the showering luck. Wherever it may come form, may it always remain with you. Even the darkness of any utter grimaces bring light to me. This darkness gives me the troubled chill i have began to enjoy for quite a while. And as the chilly wind sweep by the dusts from the ground i find something swirling in my heart. Something turning, something vibrating. Oh, its the thought of you!
Well, you are my poetry. And for you i will go to hell and back be there no doubt. For here i am a poet. The Dante of Kathmandu. And you are my Beatrice. My grace in all my words.
The darkness around me-spare the light from the light-posts and a shop I just bought this pen from-is so noisy, in its own mute and mild nature, and the stone bench I sit on is so cold. The cars drift on every now and then. It is a busy city, Kathmandu. It's 2o'clock in the night. With their speed quite make out that ,well, its a good time of the year to drink and drive. A car, big, black and slim and so lush, passed by and its screeching tires yelled as it stopped. This car takes me back to when I first met you, my Beatrice.
For in the same lush, big car that has stopped to pick me up, i went to your parents day of your school. It was a nice show, and the commotion to it was even more greater. I dont like a huge bunch, I am often a loner, i think you've noticed. But I sat down patiently or walked out of the big auditorium It was quite boring for me. But the show was nice. The show was nicely scheduled,adequate and had little to do with me,so it was not for me. I would've approached you then-although we did talk for moments backstage on a black couch where I was dishonoring the mighty god of music(the guitar) with my ramble and ignorant playing. You didnt seem to mind. It was all fine by me then. I would have approached you a lot earlier. But didnt quite help because of your running away was not at all very encouraging. But we never stopped talking after that did we?
So midway upon the earth, I sit in this exquisite car-not mine, just some guy way older than me who is fond of my poetry more than me- the heater warmed me up, but then again, memories of you began to warm up my soul.
You are quite a warm person. Warm indeed. For your voice melts me, and my words. So I could never speak clearly with you. And your giggle is like the sound of the wind chimes on the free wind for me, that of pure music. And with all the utter surprise, the wind never bothers you. You complained of the sun and said you hated the rain. But never did you say anything of the wind. The wind is quite your element, for you took my breath away the first time i saw you. Near that pond, which the wheels have taken away from me just a few minutes ago.Then and there my heart skipped a beat. But you never noticed, as it had happened. Right there, near the pond were we met after so long. Words have powers that are explainable and unimaginable with a lost of mysticism converged in it. Its like all the answers of all the questions are given by words, dissolved in emotions, immersed in thought and indulged with the worldliness. The worldly words. Them I have used much, and every syllable pronounced by me was a gratitude. Really, a gracious implication for being able to handle my boring, random and worthless conversations. I doubt still that if I had really made you laugh.
But the did keep you up all night, didn't they? Well if not, then I guess my boring conversations are very particular to its victim. My sincere apologies.
Apologies, I have showered upon you. For my boring conversations just now, and an ample times of misgivings and mistakes that were quite trivial-i agree to it now.
I had apologized for the time we had met near that pond. I was happy the, for you had waited. I would say "Thank you!" in the most distinctive way the order of the words could go. But instead the situation implored me to use quite an easy word. A magic word to replace magic words. A much more easier one, indeed.
"Sorry."
I was late there. And to add, I haven't used that word with the same person at the same time for the same reason. Quite a life changing factor you are, My Beatrice.
Ha!
I guess you didn't even know what I was apologizing for. You didn't seem to mind much. That's just me my Beatrice. My actions just don't make sense to me.
***
Here I am now, under the bridge. A little further from here we walked. I could see somewhat anger in your face that day.
The steaming bit of it was that you covered from the light rain. You complained and grumbled for the rain many a times before. And you were sure it would rain that day. I was sure it hadn't any possibility. And my predictions on the weather being true, on which I am highly sure about, have never been so. The rain loved you it seemed. It fell lightly, on the ground, sweeping of the dusts from the mud and stones like a brush sweeping out dust. But then your umbrella went shut. I could see the irritation in your face. It tried to freeze in. And the rain just came down so tenderly like it only moaned for your touch in tenderness. For it and for i guess every celestial to existent being, your touch is elegant. And its approach it downright, as it falls downright, and is down-rightly beautiful. Mine touch would be misunderstood.
All i could do out of jealousy from it was to provide you the canopy of my warm palms. The only warmness i have, from which's heat only words come out in black ink.
You remind of the rain, my Beatrice. The rain is so elegant., and is always so true. It just endevours everything with elegance, sometimes scornful, sometimes angry, sometimes soothing. And sometimes so cold. For the rain is so elegant, as elegant as you. And it is built of an phenomenon, as the lavender sky changes its color when the cotton clothing clouds erode into dark and deeper shades of grey. They break to fall. And the day it seemed it had fell, only for us. And thence it was that you said you liked the rain, from then on.
And when you caught my hand as we passed by the sidewalk,well-I have no words for them. Let me give a better off description. When i could feel your palms, your warmth. A chilling started to swirl through my chest, like it was a cold breeze in the long summer days. The warmth that soothed, only you have that, my Beatrice.
Again, when you hugged me though, the sensation was unexplained by me, incomprehensible by you and deadly for my thoughts. I could feel you. Your chest against mine, and your chin on my shoulders.
And then came the night again, when I was caught by the frenzy more than once, twice, or thrice. But for six times you had hugged me. With all the utter despair, and the lust, shinning through your eyes, and if I was at longing then as i was but didnt show, then it would be quite inconsiderate of me Beatrice. It was night, and you had to go. You had come running from home, panting in perspiration For me, a luckless young man. There was beauty in it, in-compassionate to my sense, but beauty that exhilarated in the uttermost of expressions. As i could see your face was apologetic. That you were late, that I understood. I waited for the sundown, like i promised i always would. I hadn't any resentment towards you. For you I longed to see, and prayed. I wasn't sad, my Beatrice. I was glad that you came. Rushing and panting, maybe yes. But what not had i found just in one sight of you in the moon-lit night? The sight of you in the spark of the skies, in the shades of the vague dark sky, in the glow of the green moss of the pond, and your embrace. For it seemed that all the heavens and the earth conspired, to bring me this night. And your perfume filled my head the henceforth.
Nothing compared. Nothing.
But I couldn't take it, and I let the embrace of you go. Although i spread my arms around you, to feel you again. To take in the warmth you offered with delight, to seek refuge in your thick hair, to inhale more of the air that shrouds you, for which is so nearly to my heart.
But I stopped, for my embracing would get you late. I thought I had put you through enough. With my boring conversations and uninteresting ideas I pull off.
So I withdrew for it. And i guess this angered you. And you rolled your eyes, and left. Cold winds scattered by when you did, like it implored me to bring you back. I couldn't do much in the gravity that the air beholden in the moment. I just caught your hand. Wrong move, for my touches are misunderstood.
But i guess i was being to hard, and you looked at me, and i could see it in your reflecting eyes, the reflection of anger. To none but me. I died within, and let you go.
I stood there, and said nothing. But till you were till a distance, all I could say was sorry. "Sorry" being the last word of the night with you.
It died, Beatrice, it died somewhere. My emotions there died.
And I stood there for a while. Thinking to myself, if i hugged you once more than things would be different. Things would be so distinct from what it is at the present. Things could be so much more, than they are, as they lie with us. These memories are of sheer regret for me. I am ignorant of yours.
But i stood there in patient waiting. Something within said you would be back. You would be there, and would be telling me when to see you again. When i could be put at ease with your warm smile and your gentle hug, which would remove so much of the anxiety i feel now, to this day for not having hugged you. Quite a punishment you give, my Beatrice.
And when i waited for you silently there. You did some back, and there was somewhat radiance in the face of mine which was dark and ready to sink in my chest.
I thought you would say something sweet with the voice that could melt not only words but even thoughts. "Just go!" was the last words from you that night.
No one could make those words sound soothing, in no way sweet and in no order possible. In every language, it is quite opposite of sweetness Not sour, it hadn't no taste. It was inedible sort of taste. Like air in packets of chips. The one we shared during holi.
***
Of all the scholastic personalities that i have encountered gave me the same philosophic technique. Save the best for last. But if the best is in the but end, what fun would it be?
Holi, colors, you, water, the terrace view of one of the most ancient sites of the Kathmandu city-the capital of the Lichavvi Kings, Vishalnagar- and me. Now to think of it, i can write a book about it. About the single day.
All I can write down in a prose only i could understand, and you could too. For i believe you noticed me, secretly adoring you and your elegance for the very first time. My poetry then began with you. I was just thinking of it, amending those words in my mind, and when we rubbed colors on each other's faces and poured bucket fills of water, i couldn't help but get the feelings of chill, like the one we get when wind chimes move in the free wind. How could feelings not arise, not blossom? You have been my poetry since. And ignorant as you were then, and as you are now, you have become my Beatrice. But i, was preoccupied with words running through my mind, was lost somewhere, so i made an excuse of my lost cell. Just to fake a distraction(my actions make no sense, remember?). I was lost anyways, in those dark black pupils. Your skin aglow when you washed those colors off your face. Something in that terrace shone more perfectly than a pearl on the shimmering sunlight. You.
Your cheeks in their rare redness always drove my senses crazy. I always loved and adored them. Remember how i left my jacket? That was on purpose. Just to see more you. I was crazy, yes.
I didnt know what to tell you. And my words never came clearly to you. The confusion that this fusion of you know not getting me and me not coming clearly created a phenomenon. This built the highway which came to a dead end on a hill. And we both were on the either sides. We never could understand each other.
But regret not, my Beatrice. For even I dont understand myself.
For what am I? A philosopher hanging out with never-do-goods. A religious guy in love. Honestly, i have no idea who am I. But I know who I am when I am with you.
***
Now the latest memory of you.
Not so pleasant but true. You hit me on the head. And said(commanded) a three word command. "Put that down."
"What?Why?No!" was my three word reply.
Nicotine doesn't erase memory as the scientists say. It refreshes it. And i followed you, and kept apologizing(now to think of it, i do that everytime im with you.) and think now, that there should always be a guy that should remind you of your elegance. I just wished if i was him. But he is somewhere perhaps. Where the distance of the highway diminishes. I think you are closer to him then you shall be with me. And i know, my Beatrice, of this you dont care.
But I do. Ha!
So here I am, so close but so far. Right here, infront of your house, where i had once spent Holi. Not to see you or anything. Its the darker side of the morning in which the sky seemingly wants to cling to the deep purple shade. Like a numb wound. And i wouldn't dare to interrupt you. Your elegant sleep you once ignored for me. And i do but fear, that this elegance will be lost from me.
But off am i again. To the the pond I guess the tadpoles aren't there. It's a winter morning, and they have settled. Like my dark feelings and thoughts are.
I will put them to rest now.
And come walking here,in front of this idol of the mighty Hanuman, where i bid you a good night. And hoped have i to see you.
And well, with everything i have endured, i still cherish your memories and your elgance. I hope we meet soon. This was just me refreshing out on those memories and thoughts, indulging with the thoughts of you.---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You didn't show today, Beatrice. Guess the highway increased its length, by all dimensions. There is no shade in this warm winter night. Warmness, yes. The eccentricity is paranormal. The dismal thoughts are inhumane. Surrounded by smoke, under the florescent bulb hanging on this lamp post, I write to you for it is the only object which helps to out-pour my grief on these pages.
You said you would be here. Is this some old resentment? Have I wronged? Agree, I do. Agreements are not my virtue. But I agree with this bitterness, that this is reality. That you didn't come.
You said you would be here. You said I couldn't see more of you, but you would be here. How could those elegant words from sweet voices become so false. The tadpoles swim more on the surface, on the verge of outbreak as I know.
Address these curiosities Beatrice. Had you forgotten? Or at least of your care are my approaches. To have the warmth that soothes. If not by will, then by being the only wish of it. For it weeps in black ink. This sorry poet.
For yes, I've been a fool for you. I thought i would leave with bitter memories than we had before. Something i could cherish. Keep them near to me, as i have done with you and all that i find in your essence. But i forgot the distance. You never got me, but always had me.
And now, the answer to your question.
Your inquisitions, and my very honest reply.
Why you? That's not the question, my Beatrice. Why not you? For all you are to me. No one has ever defined beauty to me, and has altered the feelings of despair. I've always been a different person. No one can cite the oneness of me. But you did, as you brought that oneness in me. The oneness in my troubled heart. If divinity is is what makes god, you are what causes this oneness, Beatrice. You are way beyond cherished in my eyes then any feeling, for you bring peace.
That's the beauty in you. When i first met you, none of these lurking feelings beheld upright and point to you and directing to you in discreetness that you were it. The oneness of my heart. So when these feelings lurked, I had instantly asked your question to myself. And i found the answer when i was with you. With one of myself. With the me that was with you.
I adorned you, and decorated you in my memory. Yes, this answer killed my humor when i was with you, because i was so nerve-ragged when i discovered it to be so. Like a dead fish on a downward stream, i flowed along with the slow water. Aimlessly falling, falling for you. Like the smile i aimlessly try to put on your face.
Why you?
For my aimlessness is my very dear wish. It is my aimless desire to keep you happy, and smile along. The nearest wish to my heart. I wish all for it to be true. Your happiness is all that matters. For this oneness you bring at my heart is happiness too. And like its obvious now, I'd like to return this happiness, this oneness. So this oneness of you could be the oneness of me. Again so, that when you are happy, i could smile along.
Hard to be possible,huh?
And still so, I am here, looking at the black sky and searching for the stars. I can count them, they are so few tonight. It was impossible to see you, i guess. You are beloved and for all by luck Beatrice. I might as well be all ignored by it.
Bestowed upon you be the showering luck. Wherever it may come form, may it always remain with you. Even the darkness of any utter grimaces bring light to me. This darkness gives me the troubled chill i have began to enjoy for quite a while. And as the chilly wind sweep by the dusts from the ground i find something swirling in my heart. Something turning, something vibrating. Oh, its the thought of you!
Well, you are my poetry. And for you i will go to hell and back be there no doubt. For here i am a poet. The Dante of Kathmandu. And you are my Beatrice. My grace in all my words.
