A small spring,

That a casket can contain,

Or the pupil of an eye.

So intense were its

Colours and odours

It couldn’t have lasted long-

Like some adolescent loves

A small spring,

Like a Flame of the Forest

In full bloom unaware of

The arrival of winter.

Why did it vanish so fast,

I asked the wind

A drizzle was the reply.

It had some floating petals

That God had kept as bookmarks

In Life’s account book.

I could not decipher the script

As they were dried up, wrinkled.

A small spring,

More scorching than summer,

Burning with pleasure.

I stopped kissing anyone

Except solitude in its

Tight black gown.

I open the windows wide:

Suppose it comes back like

The spilt wine returning to the cup

Shouting with passion,

‘Come and lift me up!’

A small spring, a pang,

My lips quiver with desire

Cheers!