Everlasting spring

Often I find you

in the forest of my mind.

Here the everlasting spring

ignores the outside winds

of summer, winter.

Bird-songs

flow with the wings

of my mind

flowers with their hues

ring here in the winds

forever.

I am a lover.

I love to love.

With my hand in your hand

I write my lines,

you are my Scarlet O’ Hara, Matilda,

Madame Defarge, my Jane Eyre, my Emma.

Eyeliners that brighten your eyes

unite with tears

falling in love and despair

become the ink in my platter

with which I paint..

O my lady

like streams you run in my veins

roles of mother, daughter, lover

inevitably drift in my mind;

for it has witnessed you

in euphoria, anxieties

for generations.

Your delineation seems tired

with ignominy and insinuation

the storm of the seasons has fluttered

your leaf

but in the page of my mind

teasing woods

I see your matchless grace.

With belief, I write your

unsung, unseen stories

sometimes with a grass-flower

at other times with a flute

or a rainbow.

Your unparalleled state

of calm, despite stages

you pass on either side of the spell

in separation or union of love

exile, kingdom

is being written ceaselessly

by your lover.

He is tirelessly writing of his love

in the eternal spring inside,

leaning on you.