The Wait

The wait for our joy

Is like a half blossomed flower.

I have a foreboding,

Our relationship might

Be uprooted

Dry up with the touch of

The untimely fog.

Doesn’t mean I am afraid of that

Still I fear

Lest my wait

Ends up in a few moments

In the magic house of poetry,

In our love

Now, the wait is my only pleasure,

While attempting to capture

through poetry

the subtle touch of your love.

However, my poem flows into

The pearl-less oyster.

And I wait

Till our love flows into history.

Your intimacy, your affection

The strong thread of our relationship

Will make everyone speechless.

I wait for that,

And I wait for that.