The reader and the narrator

Of all the images that had stayed
With me , of her, so to say,
Is the one of her sitting at the threshold
With a book , reading stories (which she told
Me quite oft, afterwards, ) of Love and romance,
And the light of the day upon her hair as fell by chance,
Making her silhouette all the more beautiful to watch and admire,
Of all the images of her,
That had stayed out , magnificent,
Much like her own self,  resplendent,
Which not only bloomed like a flower
But also made me oft to love her,

How many times words came out rhyming
Out of my lips merely by finding
Her , sitting quiet, serene and soft,
How by seeing her I sang with ease, full throat,
How I told her too all those sights and visions
That flew within me like a perennial motion,

She , knew every bit of my expressed thoughts,
She knew perhaps every bit of my inexpressible words
Yet she remained as if she had been ignorant,
Yet she had  tinges of pinkish hue upon her cheeks, like paint
Of her affection held at the tip of a rain drenched leaf,
Only to make me feel her love hidden deep
Beneath the upper crust of our friendship,

Of all the images that had stayed
With me, of her,so to say,
Is that primary feel of her sitting quiet
At the threshold of a door, caressed by light
Of the day that fell upon her , her hair, her face,
Her gown, white with an embroidered lace,
And she reading a book of stories , of Love,
Which she oft narrated to me, afterwards.


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