The sky is turning red and orange,

Time for the sun to set,

For the moon to rise,

The sea yawns, ready to sleep;

We sit on the beach,

My head leaning on your shoulder;

You read to me your last poem,

‘We will meet again!

I will write our love story again!’

Night creeps in,behold!

I cup your face in my hands,

Your lips are cold;

You turn into a handful of sand,

The last poem ends.

Anita Bacha


Processed with MOLDIV



Woman! I sip from the chalice of your love

Sweet ambrosia churned by the Gods

In the vast ocean of mystery

Sad is the man who knows not of your charm

Who has never tasted of your celestial beauty

Anita Bacha

White Rose