Seven Days Poem by Mohabeer Beeharry

Many a year
Has drifted by
Since last I saw her.
Age has now caught up with me.

She was once queuing for a train ticket.
So was I.
I do not remember
How the conversation began..
And do you know what?
We became friends....
Just a trifle little more than that perhaps!

Love is like a butterfly,
Subtle and elusive.
It hovers,
It tempts and it frisks
And when it lands,
We are willing prisoners.

Something tender slowly crept in.
A throb or two in the heart,
Timid flutters
Sprouting dearly little yearnings.

All of a sudden she seemed to be unbearably far.
Strange
How human beings
Make dreams of sleepless nights
And flowers of unborn buds.

Six days we had together
And on the seventh
I saw her off at the station.
She said thanks
And cried.

As she got into that train,
I knew that with every rail track clatter
The train made,
She would be swallowed into a whirlpool
Of growing distance,
Trapped into the fog of an irretrievable past.

Years later,
The memory of something tender,
The curious seven day love story,
Emerged from the flow of time.
Alive.

An unwritten play,
We are blank sheets,
Time the writer.
You can never tell
What comes next.

Like children
Engaged
In playing on the shores
Of tears and laughter,
Unguarded,

We exist from one moment to another.
Some memories recede into forgetfulness.
Others vanquishing the buffets,
Rise again,
And the pen goes on.

They say
If the love is true,
Distance and storms
Are but trifle scares.

My words are my flowers;
Of them I make a garland
Which I float on the river of time.
Perchance it will survive the storms
And outwit the distance.