A Sense of Yearning

Through the quiet of the night walked the three men; Three they were, and a hundred patient trees, who Watched them try to pour fresh colours Into the quiescent melancholy within the greens. Melodic phrases they hummed with strange avidity; Songs which they sang were full of life; But the night was already quiet, cold and dead. The lonesome grass reeds embraced their music Like the cheek of a mother welcomes her tears, And somehow thanked the three strange men In a voice soaked in painful inaudibility. The men were aloof from the deceptions The world out there offers aplenty, with a smile; And so were those trees, who watched the world Burn to ashes, and the creations of the Almighty Soil their souls and the souls of others, Reducing to dust too heavy for the Earth to carry. But that night was the night they had longed for For that night, the men who had remembered the trees Were men who sang songs, gifting soporific euphonies; Men who had flutes in their hands, an

It was a November night, cold and silent When the small cube of ice saw the candle; Cold he was, amongst a few other cubes Lying in insouciance, waiting for the glass. And there on the table stood the candle, Tall and firm, in bewitching beauty... She was burning all alone in patience. Everything besides her was benighted But there was light in her, around her; And her wax gleamed like the divine skin Of a Goddess, under the light of her halo; The cube of ice heard a small sound... A heartbeat? But he had always been so cold; Cautiously he moved out of his tray Responding to the pull by the candle On the invisible but strong thread. He got awed by the glistening of himself As he went nearer, and nearer still; "That's enough," cried the candle. The ice stopped and felt a beat, again. "You are a beauty, my flame," he said. The fluttering candle smiled; And the flame reddened and looked down. "I can't fee