Of That Picnic Poem by Sasanka Sekhar Panda

Of that last picnic
I remember only
that your eyes were filled with spring
and your lips, burning like roses
that you were as beautiful as the valley
as cool as the blue sky
as silent as the lake.

In the last passing days
I have breathed all your love to burn
as now I am the dark-lined borders
of a ruined city
and am dwelling on stones.

Now, the warm roundedness
of the spraying rain
is meaningless for me
now, everywhere are broken poems
and you have turned
my longings into stones
and you have exchanged dreams
with piles of rusted rugs.

I am left alone
with only my scratched, trembling wings
weaving cobwebs of despair.
I can't forget
Your memory
and my wounded past.