ODE TO A WOMAN

Her beauty touched the gods.
Her intelligence was ethereal.
She was born a poetess.
When I read her odes,
I believe that Pablo Neruda,
like a hermit crab,
has found shelter in her body.
If she were a quetzal,
I am a blackbird.
For some unfathomable reason,
she was attracted to me.
She said in my simple plumage
I incarnated an arhat.
I couldn't comprehend
her mysterious attraction for me.
She said she loved me
and wanted to be by my side.
I could not allow her
to be taken prisoner.
As unattached as I was
and at ease with my impermanent state,
I would be a cage who would ultimately
suppress her liberated spirit.
I told her I wasn't the one.
I couldn't imprison someone
whom I held in awe.
Even as open as I was,
she wouldn't be free.
Her peaceful countenance never changed.
She left and I have never seen her again.
I have continued my journey.
I am not sad nor do I regret my decision.
I would have clipped her wings.
Instead, she is soaring.
And I am content.

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