Music Makers Poem by lalitha iyer

In the silence of the night
music makers wake up
upon the breasts of mounting love
they harp upon and ripples carve
the fingering beauty
with passions tuned
the greedy organ
demanding the due
the softness is moulded
to singing melodies old
and the richness is combed
with honey bee's buzzing codes
hips slip off
and they beat in resonance
the blooding thighs
are no more an excuse
the makers of Music
never cease
their rhythmns beat upon
the breast to bums
all honestly drummed