FullSizeRender (10)My parched lips touch the crypt furtively

The biting of the white marble

Down my spine runs shudders weirdly

My eyelids flutter in bewildered rapture

Drops of tear fall down my cheeks

Merging in the dew of a red rose hungrily

A red rose on your tomb lying silently

With trembling hands I cup the red rose

On my heart I press firmly

A token of your love,

A vestige of the unforgettable past;

The verses of my poetry

Where do they come from?

The rhythm of my song

Where does it stem from?

The fragrance of the red rose

Where does it spring from?

The words speak of your love

The rhythm speaks of your love

The red rose speaks of your love;

Of your warmth, your tenderness

Your immaculate beauty

They have woven precious history

Is this the end of our story untold?

Or the beginning of a new romance,

An eternal saga of two souls?


– Anita Bacha – Puttaparthi- India- 18 March 2012



With a song in his heart,

 He paints a red rose bud on a stem,

The portrait of his ideal woman,

The artist;

His brush like a magic wand,

Unveils with gentle dexterity,

 Svelte and exquisite folds of a red rose bud;

A red rose bud,

That will crush under the weight of his hot kisses,

 Without wanting to spoil its purity;

The moist and warm lips of the red rose bud,

Soft and silky,

Innocence of innocence,

He paints with virtuosity, the artist;

The purple blush of the young bud,

The colour of passion that devours his enamoured soul,

The immaculate rose, pressed,

 Squeezed into a tight bud,

As pristine as the artist himself,

Never to unfold its petals to the stars,

Will be a picture of his dream girl,

A red rose bud on a stem,                    

A large bloodstain on a blackboard,

A perennial beauty by a stroke of his brush,

The fantasy of his seventeen years,

A lost love before the blossom of love,

Like a mirage on the shore of time


Processed with Moldiv

Processed with Moldiv