Season Of The Morning Star
By Fiza Pathan
The storm breaks and the rain wets
The atmosphere in bliss.
The peacock is awakened from his slumber
And he dances with the thunder
All feathers spread to show off
A myriad of beautiful colours.
I’m not a poet of the rain
As I need it to hide my tears.
I hide my crying in the rain
And my screams in the lightning’s thunder.
I’m not a poet
And I never knew what love was like.
But ever since I’ve seen you
My sweet intellectual lover
Since then have I penned
Verses of amour so lovingly
As if the parchment were your face.
The rain breathes in the storm
With a gurgle in its throat.
The landscape which was parched
Is now drenched with the richness
Of heavenly holy water.
I walk in the rain to hide
What the world wishes to see.
You are kind dear intellectual lover
So you do not probe into
The misery of my rainy days.
I hear a moan when I walk in the rain
The sound of raindrops pelting my umbrella
As I look towards the grey sky
With pain in my gaze.
Dearest intellectual lover
You also are a poet,
A poet of profound thought.
Pray dance with my aura
In the sunlight which I adore.
Keep away the rain from my balcony
When you come to call me out to play
In the season of the brightest morning star.
Copyright © 2014 by Fiza Pathan
Rainy_Day_0909 (8).JPGBy Alvimann