I was Waiting

I was waiting ,
digging holes inside pale words
kept into bleeding heart
around limited memory notes
offered by her exiled palm
occasionally glanced deep inside
remembering only glorious silence

when she traveled through Alps ,
I painted her into deep red ,
kissed her winter lips limping on ice ,
and while she was on African safari ,
deep into jungle ,
singing in dark around bon fire ,
I simply read my unborn poetry

But where ever she was ,
she produced pain , which I
translated into Poetry ,
And thanked her ,
Begging for more life
an opaque expression of thoughts .
- H Sadhak