Not long ago, the writer of these lines,
in the mad pride of intellectuality,
maintained “the power of brain”- denied that ever
a thought arose within the human brain
that can’t be wiped away by the gales of time.
And now, as if in mockery of that boast,
a picture, painted with blurry brushstrokes,
much alike the façade of Aphrodite,
bathing in the moonlight fall of silver sparkle,
and dancing to the hymns of angels,
have exhumed a fire lost in squalls of,
distance and clocks and unvoiced passion .
Resurrected the yearn to burn in the flames
of Proclivity to glance at the seraphic vista.
Flared and charred I feel myself ashen,
and shivering. My pen falls from stiff fingers,
and I stand at the fringe of the abyss,
with you at the bottom, and the sides
and at the start of the end and,
at the end of the start, it’s you all around
O’ I wish, somehow, I drowned.
(the first three lines are taken from the poem of Edgar Allen Poe with the same title)