‘LOVE’ – What mystique power it wields
In what myriad guise it wraps!
At times a sweet ache so coy to reveal
Or a sudden urge, hard to unveil

Sometimes a deep sensation
A strong surge of emotion
Permeating every atom
Pervading from top to bottom

It heightens the pulse
And makes every nerve convulse
It has left kingdoms fall asunder
And many a mighty man - surrender

Often, like dew drops falling from above
Or the warbling notes flowing out from the grove
It leaves the heart go upbeat in prosody
Changing every sensation into rhapsody

As beams of silver cast by the moon
Or the cold touch of spray in the horrid heat of noon
It soothes, embalms and thrills the heart
Filling the void and leaving no dearth

Love sublime, sure like a candle lit
Consumes itself, and never dwindles a bit
It dispels the gloom and dissipates the fright
Invigorating the soul and healing every hurt

As brilliance to stars, fragrance to flowers
Music to flute or shade to bowers
Love is to Man, freeing him from all sores
Bestowing him the strength to meet all throes

Love can neither be beguiled nor disguised
Nor be stifled or be construed
Love puts all other things into place
And hems life with a lovely lace

Love is all we seek and too scarce to find
A magic thread by which hearts are bound
Hark! It is love that makes the world spin around
And cures all the ills that surround

Oh! Love thou virtues I will defend

Far away in ancient Jerusalem
Stood a garden, long, long ago
Home to giant oaks and figs
And plants and shrubs of every kind.

On every season, from time to time
Merrily they would burst into bloom
Filling the air with fragrance sweet
And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer.

Amid the riot of flashing shades
Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads
In a corner, there a Lily stood,
Sans scent and sans grandeur.

A poor loner never once noticed
Nor skilled to steal the show,
Those, brilliant in shade and shape
With contempt openly quipped

‘It’s such a shame
She grows among us
With such pallid shade
And nothing to rave’,

‘Lilies are such lazy lot
Giving only seasonal blooms’

Rang aloud their haughty comments
Rashly blurted out and blunt

The poor Lily wilted in shame
Wishing she had never been born.

Late that evening, through the garden
Into the newly dug up grave
A band of people came with lights
Bearing someone cut and scathed.
With blood oozing, drop by drop
From wounds, left by piercing nails

The body, carefully wrapped in linen
Was the body of Jesus - Son of God
The one who bore the sins of the world
And courted the most accursed of deaths.

The body embalmed was laid inside
And sealed with a giant block of stone
Soldiers posted to guard the tomb
And every vigil so prudently kept.

Early by dawn, three days hence
While it was still very dark
From inside the tomb had come
Rumbling sounds and a blinding light.

Flowers en masse blinked their eyes
Beheld a man, gently walking out
The wounds still fresh on his palm
And the linen that swaddled, lying behind.

As they watched this queer sight
In awful amazement, they did see
A host of Lilies, white as snow
Far more beautiful than any of them
Bowing their heads in reverential glee
And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life.

All the flora in silent shock
Sighted from whence the Lilies came
They sprang unforeseen in those spots
Where drops of blood from his body fell

Then onwards, without fail
April sees the grandeur and grace,
Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms
Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth
Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze,
And giving delight to all who behold.

In my garden
A climber grows
From the trellised platform
It strays its way
Trespassing into others territory
Annoying the plants
Growing close

Its emerald leaves
Of bright glossy sheen
With serrated edge
And prominent veins
Trembling and timorous
When whipped by the wind
Is a real delight to view!

Close to monsoon
It is in flower
The heavy clusters
Droop down in weight
A medley of white, pink and red
Languidly swaying in the breeze
Giving off a faint aroma

Early morning I see them
Tear stained
I wonder what makes them cry
Do they lament their transient fate?
Or are they sad,
Molested by amorous bees?