I think passion

I think of you

I think devotion

I think of you.

I see you pouring a cup of tea

More intense than her midnight poetry.

Sometimes she appears, as she wrote she would

Lighting your canvas with a spark

Sometimes as a magical line

Piercing right through your heart.

Her tumultuous ink swirls and flows

Caressing you

You tender rose.

Who can ever describe to us

What it truly means to be you?

Perhaps the coolest forest stream,

Perhaps the fleeting  morning dew.

Or the bird that startles with its call

But remains hidden from the view.

Love’s a mystery. No one knows

Why it begins, how it grows

Yet love returns again and again

On her poetry’s boundless shore.

The entire universe sways in dance

With a grand rhythm that ebbs and flows

As the gentle winds sigh your name

Imroz, Imroz

Imroz, Imroz.

– Paromita Goswami