Sitaram
kickbox
The subtle shade of laurel leaves abides
The red of roses laughing at their side,
The brambles' acridness,
Survives the petal's kiss,
The petals' sweetness,
The scent of grass fresh crushed,
In gentle drifing through the visions,
Drifting through the languid rush
Of moons and clouds in shadowy collisions;
A star through velvet shifting,
The hush of breathing lifting to the night,
The lightness of your lips,
The caustic after-image of their touch,
The laughter of my fingertips
Dancing down your face.
Memories in dreams go dancing,
Clutching hand-in-hand, it seems,
The blush of cheeks serene enhancing
Red remembering of green.
So roses wilt and fall from too much laughing.
The green of laurel leaves out lives them all;
The summer's flame, the frost of early fall,
The winter's call begetting
The blame in each sun setting,
The gaping spring raped green
By passion's budding breath,
The falling-fashioned ,hushed serene
Of age,
Of death.
- Sitaram
(circa 1965)
The red of roses laughing at their side,
The brambles' acridness,
Survives the petal's kiss,
The petals' sweetness,
The scent of grass fresh crushed,
In gentle drifing through the visions,
Drifting through the languid rush
Of moons and clouds in shadowy collisions;
A star through velvet shifting,
The hush of breathing lifting to the night,
The lightness of your lips,
The caustic after-image of their touch,
The laughter of my fingertips
Dancing down your face.
Memories in dreams go dancing,
Clutching hand-in-hand, it seems,
The blush of cheeks serene enhancing
Red remembering of green.
So roses wilt and fall from too much laughing.
The green of laurel leaves out lives them all;
The summer's flame, the frost of early fall,
The winter's call begetting
The blame in each sun setting,
The gaping spring raped green
By passion's budding breath,
The falling-fashioned ,hushed serene
Of age,
Of death.
- Sitaram
(circa 1965)