A Poem

In the deep silence of twilight,

I hear the screech of your pen on my heart;

Tears flow from my eyes,

Because I know you carve this poem for me;

Your fingers, speckled with ink,

Sketch words of love on my body,

Caress my lips thirsty of your kisses,

Paint my hair the colour of dawn

Anita Bacha

Illustration/Photography/AnitaBacha

My Rose

My Rose

I watch you in my garden early morning,

Your petals wide open, yawning;

I tenderly hug you to sip the dew of your lips,

Forgetful of the green prickly tips,

Under your enticing scarlet folds;

A dew of blood on my finger unfolds,

My rose,

Feverishly I blot with my lips

The dew of your lips,

Dew as sweet as lovers’ first kiss.

Anita Bacha

YOUR TOUCH

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Waiting

My sleep has left with you;

Waiting on the isolated shore,

I am all alone drunk with remorse;

In the moonless night,

My thoughts, lost in the dark blue sea,

I dream of your nimble form,

Floating on the tranquil water;

I wait and I watch for the waves,

I wait for you to drown in my arms

Anita Bacha

Illustration/photography/anitabacha

moonless night

NOSTALGIA

O mystic traveler!

As a warm gentle waft,

You’re in thro’ the secret doors of my alcove;

Snuggled under the red satin quilt,

In gentle strokes you caressed

My thirsty body;

Whispering musical words,

In the naked voice of silence,

You stole my soul,

Left behind a sorrowful corpse.

Anita Bacha

Fistful of Sand IMG_7643

Sing a Song 

O! My foolish little bird!
Why are you perched on this desolate twig?
The leaves have yellowed and fallen,
The leaves have drifted away;
Your feathers as soft as pain,
Your silence drowns in rain;
O! My foolish little bird,
What love do you seek?

Anita Bacha


 
 
 
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