I still remember reading this to him one summer in Wyoming in an open tent. Me lying on my belly with Tagore's The Gardener in my hands on the piece number 49 and him sitting on a log carving a soon-to-be a horse miniature. He stopped and listened to me.
I hold her hands and press her to my breast.
I try to fill my arms with her loveliness,
to plunder her sweet smile with kisses,
to drink her dark glances with my eyes.
Ah, but, where is it?
Who can strain the blue from the sky?
I try to grasp the beauty, it eludes me,
leaving only the body in my hands.
Baffled and weary I come back.
How can the body touch the flower
which only the spirit may touch?
And he said "Change dark glances to alluring glimpse. And the whole piece will be from me to you"
Now, after two years of his death, I, recently, have read the same piece to somebody. I thought I would not read it to anybody anymore. The person now means something to me. And I keep on telling myself that I will not give up - not a pushy way =p
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