Honeysuckle

Pressed against his body,

His breath smouldering her neck,

She felt his flower growing,

Impatient,

Wanting,

Growing,

Then melting like sweet honey,

Wetting her wedding sari,

Leaving a broad stain,

And a sweet smell;

Souvenir of a first caress

In a hotel elevator .

Anita Bacha

Writer’s note: The honeysuckle is a sweet smelling flower that grows in bush in many parts of the world. The pink honeysuckle that we find in Japan is the symbol of the bond of love between husband and wife. It also symbolizes devotion, fidelity and generosity.

SPRING IN DÜSSELDORF 

A first bloom,

A first flower,
In a barren garden,
A God sent boon;
She stoops,
Stretches a shaky hand;
A miracle has fallen,
In a lonely garden;
A fragile blossom,
She clutches to her bosom,
Forgetting the dark memories,
The cold lonely days;
A blossom of sun rays,
At last,
To warm her waning age
Anita Bacha

https://www.instagram.com/anitabacha/

SPRING IS HERE

With a magic splash of fresh paints,

Trees and plants,
Grim and dark,
With a spark,  
Into emerald green, are changed,
 Donned is the sky in glistening blue,
 Splendid and meek, the golden sun,
 Flirts jauntily,
 Budding flowers kissing delicately,
Coaxing beauty in the fun;
As spring plays with colors,
With the melodious songs of birds,
With the waltz of cheery butterflies,
With the noble heart of man,
New hopes, like fresh petals unbolt,
Blossom gaily in the garden of life .
– Anita Bacha –

https://m.facebook.com/Ani.Bacha/

AUTUMN

 

The fall comes in my garden as a sorceress

The sky covering the morning sun with a thick dimness

Broom sweeps, leaves and flowers fly off in a maelstrom

 Cold downpours freeze the subterranean thunderstorm

Birds flee up in the skies with a scream

Trout hide under the stones of the stream

I look full of hope, my love, at the radiance in the horizon

No matter the rain, the cold, the melancholy of the autumn season

Whatever the absence, the long days of waiting, the starless nights

Whatever the tears, the suffering and the frights

I wait, mad lover that I am, for your return in spring

Linger for the promised kisses, the delirious frolics in the field   

I dream of the elating scent of the rose on your tanned skin

I dream of poppies crushing on your mouth my stolen longing

Anita Bacha

acclimatation-of-francis-apied

Illustration/Artist/Francis Apied

ENVOLÉE D’UN PAPILLON

 

 Tu survoles loin dans les prés de jade doré

Sous la chaleur enchanteresse du soleil de l’été

Grisé  de délire juvénile et de joie

Tu  défoules  librement de fleur en fleur comme un roi

 

Efflorescences qui se reconnaissent entre mille fleurs

La charnelle vante ses chatoyantes couleurs

 La plus parfumée exalte ses arômes voluptueux

 La coquine essaie de t’emprisonner  dans sa corole

Une  fleur qui n’a pas de parfum te guette jalousement

Une autre,  les pétales décolorés, te regarde tristement

 

Tu  valses et tu joues, ton cœur est pris ailleurs

L’œillet chatouille ton nez

Le coquelicot est trop ridé

 Trop timide la violette

 

Quant à la rose, mystérieuse et distingué,

Elle ne ressemble pas aux autres fleurs

A l’abri de sa chambre couleur verte,

Elle se cache à déplier ses pétales soyeux

Complètement  cultivée elle quitte son énorme lien en bleu

Dans tout l’éclat de sa beauté

Céleste,  parfumé à tourner la tête de l’amant passionné

 La superbe rose est ta reine incontestée

Anita Bacha

Illustration/Artist/Francis Apied

img_7330

 

Les Fleurs

Pourquoi les fleurs de votre jeunesse?

 Fleurs qui ont été tellement prisées,

Tant précieuses,

Fleurs magnifiques,

Douillettes, velouteuses,

Sauvages, affolantes

 Vêtues de couleurs rayonnantes

 Exhalées  de  parfum céleste

Certaines  douces à  émouvoir

Certaines douces mouillées par vos lèvres

Fleurs qui vous ont fait écrire avec ardeur

Pleurer de joie

Frappé d’amour

Les fleurs qui vous ont fait chanter et danser

Fou, amant de fleurs!

Destiné n’étiez vous pas

De tomber amoureux du Créateur de fleurs?

Anita Bacha

colorful flowers

PORTRAIT OF A RED ROSE BUD

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

Poetryofanitabacha.com

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Processed with Moldiv