A Sense of Yearning

As I variegated the lazuline sky with a rainbow And painted the greens of the lush plantations I watched you, my better creations, joke and laugh While you were washing the colours off my canvas. Your ideas have become the grunge, which Now smiles all over my crimsons and blues. Oh, for whom did I paint this earth, child? Why did I induce the fire of reason in you? Can my tears ever absolve your sins, or Cleanse my anguish off my ripped flesh? Say who is, if you aren’t my own child? I don't want you to crown me a halo of lies , But sit and weep a little with me tonight, will you?

In the face of suffering she was longanimous. By the river she sat, embracing her agony And waited for the little boat to emerge, like The demure bee from within the beauteous petals. Her impregnable belief to see him, on the boat, Waving at her, made her roots go deep. She waited for the tides to run quiet and calm For just one day; and the skies to shine like her hope; Her young heart aged by the river, counting Ripples from every pebble she threw; but it was A river; ripples seemed to be in their usual rush. Summer changed to winter, winds turned cold; Leaves grew impatient and kissed the moist earth. She grew old waiting, but the boat was still a dream. The curtains were undulating, asking her to get up; And saying that maybe the land was too far; Or maybe the tides were too fast; The truth her eyes bled at the thought of was The boat was never destined for a homecoming; Neither was her wait destined to see an end;  Perhaps the boat was