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

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Listen

 

 Listen to the tears of a woman

Listen to the scent of roses

Her tears gently caress the roses

They are the last blooms of this summer

She is the last rose of this summer

Listen to the wind blowing

Listen to the rustle of leaves

Her hair sings wooing with the leaves

They are the last leaves of this summer

 She is the last leaf of this summer

 Listen to the beat of your selfish heart

Listen to your tears

They slip madly on the body of a woman

They are the last tears that you shed this summer

She is the last woman you’ll ever love

Listen to the rain

Listen to the drops that water the plain

They wash immaculately the dust of summer

It is the dust of last summer

Listen to the man you’ve become

Listen to your soul

So you will know the true meaning of love

Anita Bacha

A RED ROSE

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

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

Processed with Moldiv

Processed with Moldiv