Epithet
If
sight is interned in words
Touch
in sight
If
love is marrowed in touch
Ah!
Fie on abstinence!
Pole
star always breaks my slumber.
One
day an epithet of some God
High
above his dreams
Arising
from his bed,
Would
Listens –
She
who was lamenting
Beside
him for time immemorial
Is
no more his wife.
He
who was standing as a statue
Before
his incarnation
Is
no more his son.
The
epithet now soars up
Enters
into the serenity of the sky
Finds
no chariot this time
No
charioteer
No
prohibition to love
No
tempting snare of beloved
Plentitude
of the palace vanished.
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