Love
remains a question.

Its meaning.
Its virtue.

Its essence—
an illusion.

Unanswered
through the ages,

yet legislated
in poems.

Always as handsome
an eloquence

as the muse
himself.

And yet,
love
remains
a question.
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You’re the white camellia
I’ve been hunting in my wildforest.

Roaming through the woods,
I’ve been seeking
that scentless purity
to fill my soul,
to revive me,
to renew me…

to forgive me.

But in your kisses,
the wanderlust
vanishes
in an instant.
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With you,

loyalty
is destiny.

An instinct
I don’t want to fight.

I can’t fight.

Because
it is that much of me
that resides in you

that I
am the surrender.

That I
am the defeat
of my heart. #Shlok View Post

She waltzes into the air,
dancing deftly with the moonlight.
She kills with her allure.
She’s a magical illusion.
A mystical delusion.
A breathtaking beast,
dressed as a ballerina.

She pirouettes ¹ —
it’s the split second of life.
She walks towards you, relevée ²,
her arms the arch of Heaven.
She pauses in an arabesque ³;
the balance between life or death.
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O! In your patchwork soul,
weave mine tonight.
Let a part of me
become yours tonight.
Let my cotton
simplify your struggling silk.
Let my roughness
take away that blinding shine.

O! In your patchwork soul,
do weave mine tonight.
Let my grey
soften your quelling ocean-blue.
Let my sombre
soothe your troubled hue.

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Le coucher du soleil
par-delà les montagnes,
sa beauté,
sa doré,
et le ciel teinté
en amour
du soleil.

Et l’amour du soleil
est le ciel brun-doré.
La couleur du soir
lorsqu’il part l’azuré.

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Humanity believes in Karma.
Punishment for sins
and rewards for righteousness.

Through its myriad reincarnations
the soul attains Nirvana
when the cache of Karma is drained.

And thus, I believe
my love for you is a prayer —
a surrender to the Almighty
with a plea
that in this life, and in this life alone,
I am exempted
from the hardships
I am to endure, for this
sinner soul deserves not
your purity.
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Your voice and its melody,
the falsetto nursed in baritone,
is a mélange of the seasons,
the skies, dusk, and dawn.

The sound to which a Sufi
whirls — reaching Fitra.
The sound to which
his soul is in union with Ṣafā.

An embrace of the purity,
deific and divine,
your voice is the poetry
of the prayers they recite.

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The irony.

That deep, divine love
I have for you.
As if it were the will
of the Gods.

And yet,
the deep, dark feeling,
that you and I
are not meant to be.

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I want, forever, to
embellish my words
with you.

Like the gentle stars
breathe life into the night.

But alas, I look
to a dark, unforgiving sky,
and the harsh winds tells me

that you don’t wish
to be written about.

You don’t wish
to be written about
by me. #Shlok

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You are the dawn
dancing on the horizon —
a light I cannot afford,
for it will blind me
as it takes my darkness away.

In this dark that I dwell
I stay espoused to the truth
that it is only your fleeting shadow
that will be mine forever.

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In the last that I breathe,
I will not perish,
for my very spirit
is my love for you,
which upon my end,
will be immortalised;
manifested in your own being,
where it does belong.

As I wither, my breath,
in harmony with your heartbeat,
will evanesce into yours.

The irony is my love for you
that makes so little of me
so my fading is its eternalisation,
as it finds sanctum in you.

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What’s frozen inside me
so bad that it melts?
Comes out in tears
that I later regret,
for I shouldn’t be crying,
wasting time, now should I?
I should get up, wake up,
look the world in the eye.

What’s frozen inside me
so bad that I shiver?
At the thought of day
I just begin to quiver.
I tremble, yet I know I must try
to get up, wake up,
look the world in the eye.

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