In your last letter you asked why do I have to Love you when you are far and unseen.
Why do I choose to love you through words,and yet no signs of our lips meeting for the seasons to come by.
All I can say is nothing but feel your yellow shadows covering the seven seas and painting my unfinished painting of the daffodils.
All I can say is that with you Neruda has come alive again on my chest and a rhythm of an old irish river unfolding in my memories, quaint and near…
My Love for her has nothing to do with my love for rains….
She resembles so much to the magnolia, i have had for long, swaying, next to my childhood windows.
I remember how my worn out magenta sharpener, holding my faint yellow pencils, used to give away in between and sit tight,
while i used to helplessly look at those swaying magnolias and couldn’t draw their flowing locks,
spreading lil’ drops of water here and there on my tables with the rains over it…
My love for her is borne out of my desire to draw locks, winds, lil’ drops of rain and those lovely yellows,
on my left over, frail white, pages of scrapbook..
I have gone through your email at least 20 times by now, and a strange leisure gathered my mind and body.
So many things I would want to write to you. So many emotions. So many explanations. So much love…
But I can’t say much. And that’s where I fail. Fail miserably as some time I just cannot talk. Can’t explain. Just get lost in the scent of memories that would make me smile or cry after the rains are over.
Maybe…
Maybe I am not all that human. Maybe I am not that neatly pleated trouser but a silly tiny droplet over the leaves of the fallen magnolia….
Maybe that’s how I will grow yellow. In a want. In a desire to be able to gift my love for all that are yellows and spread….
I want to lift your eyes to my trembling lips and whisper you how real I am. How my faint deep black eyes would caress your bosom with nothing but a fragrance of faith and love which is beyond church or languages…
Maybe I would want to hold you closer to me and just do nothing but see how the cherries are blossoming on your fallen locks…maybe I would want to be your secret diary which would express all the guilts and pains and in return fly away with a huge amount of blue sky and nothingness….
Maybe I am just nothing but a glorious remembrance of how Van Gogh would have desired a daffodil …. maybe I am made to unmake you and make you swim through that vast indifferent oceans lying between us and rest your white wet feet on the chest of my lonely shores…
What are you? Just love! Who are you? Just love! Why are you? Because I am.
Does all these words sounds any vowels to you? Or just a decadent set of verbs lying locks with adjectives?
Whatsoever they are but nothing other than an expression of my deep dark yellow love for you!
I have today posted my love for you in Ello and possibly my faint explanation why it’s you.
Till then a warm lusty love which knows no distance and perfect reasons to be in love….
‘The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains,and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.’
Written at the old home in Portland by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
What happens when rains come?
A deep lust loose free from the gathering rusts on the forsaken skin,
pale green algae starts climbing on the shallow damp heart.
And?
Uninterrupted words taking so many helenic shapes, starts floating, just above my balcony!
You?
Deeply waiting for the unfinished sex to write her stories on my melancholic grey bed…
Sat Biswas 