You Die; I Die - Love Poems - Part 3 by Nikhil Parekh - HTML preview

50. DON’T TALK TO TWO LOVERS 

Don’t talk to the boundlessly barren bits of sky; talk to its garlands of vivaciously mystical clouds; instead,

Don’t talk to the fathomlessly deep ocean; talk to its majestically swirling waves; instead,

Don’t talk to the lackadaisically stretched desert; talk to its royally blossoming festoon of cactus; instead,

Don’t talk to the monotonously sprawled blankets of mirror; talk to its enigmatically alluring reflection; instead,

Don’t talk to the gigantically curved stoical tree; talk to its conglomerate of stupendously enchanting leaves; instead,

Don’t talk to the sonorously snobbish artist; talk to his myriad of incredulously absorbing paintings; instead,

Don’t talk to the insurmountably timid twin horned cow; talk to its pail of impeccably shimmering milk; instead,

Don’t talk to the unfathomably tired and grizzly haired old man; talk to his insatiable nostalgia and overwhelming yearning for the past; instead,

Don’t talk to the hideously sinister spider; talk to its mesmerizing strands of silken web which swayed exuberantly with the breeze; instead,

Don’t talk to the stringently suspended coat of thick skin; talk to its relentless infernos of unsurpassable desire; instead,

Don’t talk to the shriveled petals of the indiscriminately trampled lotus; talk to their

irrefutably exotic scent that still drifted for times immemorial in the atmosphere; instead,

Don’t talk to the country sandwiched as a rigidly aligned dot on the map; talk to its people who transpired its freedom; instead,

Don’t talk to the gruesomely morbid and perilous night; talk to its resplendent coat of seductively tantalizing stars; instead,

Don’t talk to the rustically indigenous and shaggily attired soldier; talk to his tales of immortal triumph; instead,

Don’t talk to the indefatigably treacherous mountain slopes; talk to its grandiloquently sculptured summit; glistening under the golden Sun; instead,

Don’t talk to the battalion of inexorably bored and lackluster twigs, talk to their flamboyantly crackling flames of rhapsodic fire; instead,

Don’t talk to the monstrously diabolical chameleon; talk to its unbelievable barrage of vividly changing colors instead,

Don’t talk to the dictatorial definitions of pragmatic life; talk to its labyrinth of exhilarating anecdotes; instead,

And don’t talk to two lovers absconding unrelentingly from the barricades of this miserably conventional society; talk to their poignantly staring eyes; talk to their ardently sensuous breath; talk to their passionately throbbing hearts; which had all bonded for infinite births as one; instead .

The End .