Chopin In E Minor Poem by Madhup Mohta

When winds whirled and waltzed with virgin vines
On a January night jejuned of all other joys
You stepped into my mind,
First curled and then unfolded and then wilted
In that moment of insidious intimate violence
Of an ignited, incensed, intense, insistent silence
Of kisses suffocating breaths, submerging me in your caress
Of tender inscriptions upon body and mind, yours and mine
Of ceaseless tender torments, a prelude to pain and pleasure
Of hearts and lips and eyes and fingers and hair mingled
Of desperate desires dissipating, dissolving you and me
Of aches amalgamating and agonies and sorrows melting,
Of Nocturne upon Nocturne seranading our souls
Of ephemeral ecstacy, impromptu and inflamed
With effortless ease of Chopin in E Minor.

You wrapped in tears of toil and sweat and soil
And in passions pink at first, then yielding purple
And in fragrances of earth, flavours of a frosted fire
And in shades and shadows of sunsets scripted upon you
And in moonlight kissed with dew drops shy of snowflakes
And grief of Gingko leaves abondoned by an auburn autumn
And dressed in remains of dismay, of desires, of dreams
And mouninful memories of a repentant requiem for rain
You echoed refrain upon refrain upon refrain
To senses stilled by shrill synthetic symphonies
As if an elaborate Etude of tanscedent turmoil

And then you turned back before the phrase could turn
And then you look back, looked at me and just looked on
As if Padma retreating upon Ganges retreating upon Sharda
Silent, then rustling and then cascading, without abondon
You flowed unto me, and flowed and flowed and flowed
As if a prelude retreating into a Mazurka, of
A sleeping beauty seranaded by the swan lake
Unfolding, as if unstrung and yet unsung, at first
Fragmented and subtracted, then added, multiplied
Like the story that once told goes on and on and on
In words obtuse and sentences that obfuscate
Memories and melodies on a melancholic afternoon
And you began to be you and continued to be you
Till you became you and then became I, then I became I.

And now that the Snow Moon is buta memory
And has yielded to Blue and other moons,
First Storm then Seed, Then Milk and Mead
Thunder Moon then Lightening.
Each Moon Pain's own harvest
Now when the Autumn brings upon me the Hunter's Moon, sanguine and still
Like your memory the morning after.
Long after you have gone.