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>The murmur of Love

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The murmur of Love

Joel G. Mathew

Swift are the wings you fly upon,

To a home far distant from mine.

Merry and carefree you seem,

Unaware of the peril in your wake.

For a heart unaware of such emotion,

The tides of parting lie heavy.

Though a fortnight seems so little,

Yet eons does it seem to me.

Little more than a year has passed,

Ere we met for the first time.

In the halls of Anatomy,

Amidst the ruck of mute corpus.

Dissection was to you, a skill unsurpassed.

And beyond all others dull and sundry,

Who welcomed Pandora’s flurry,

For chatter and works so base,

You surpassed the madding crowd.

A smile and a sparkle did radiate so,

From your joyous countenance,

And through the shrouds of thought,

You rose as a deity,

Ere one so heartless and stony cold.

Yet, a silver lining among dusky clouds,

Of first year and the sorrow it bequeathed.

For the balance of Solomon weighed against,

The justice of nature oft is cruel.

You it smote with Apollo’s flame,

And I woke when it was too late.

To meet the furious onslaught,

Which is hard wrought by exams,

To those unprepared.

And failed did we both.

Yet now that I think upon it,

The sorrows seem meted with gifts,

For the gift of friendship and love,

Is in itself a boon hard wrought.

Through the wards of disease,

Like the silver flame of Apollo,

In your quest for murmurs,

A soft murmur you heard not,

For evidently it lay shrouded,

And I spoke out not,

Like the model knight I held in awe.

In my younger days of schooling,

When I embraced fairy tales and epos,

Of Arthur and his regale knights,

So enamoured of aristocracy was I,

Of the white knights and their chivalry.

Where love for one deeply loved,

Must be treasured deep in the heart,

And not rankly expressed like a commoner.

Through the lanes of life,

As one travels far and wide,

It is perilous to believe tales,

Peddled by conceited old wives.

Who look at love with a sniff and swagger,

For long ago they could have it not.

So with a quest for vengeance,

Fired with green eyes of envy,

They dole out tales of deceit.

And if ever you pause to listen,

They would ensnare you in nets of falsehood.

The timid hare let out of its cage,

Where it was born and bred,

For many long years of life,

May meet an adorable meerkat,

And shy away from its own passion.

So it was, on hearing you speak,

To others akin to me,

Heavy clouds loomed in front of me,

That perhaps you love another.

Unskilled I may be in skills of men,

Who fish with words so sweet,

With bated breath and long words,

But with hearts rusty and mouldy,

From speaking to many like you.

My heart ever lies bare and open,

Untainted by experience,

Of ladies and their desires,

I speak from my heart.

If only you lean close, can you hear,

The soft patter, and the murmur of love.