At astronomical dawn,
we met as suns, as
confluence of rainbow
love, discharging our
rivers of fondness into
each other in emerald gold.

Darkness came and *****
the morning. And deep gullies,
craters, hold-ups, pains and
numerous  sorrows on the way
of glory.

But I know the suns'll not die
'cos what is written is written!

... the glory of the morning
suns appeared again in rainbow
folds, bringing rhombus sheaves
in unlimited volume with sublime beauty.

And I told her, I am your poem
and you are my poem in all
seasons.  
Recite and I recite to the power
and glory of the Author of authors.