Thousands of ocean miles,
across the path of a traveler,
whose unbend-able smiles,
lead to the gate of a Romancer.

There at the gate stands,
the traveler yet not alone,
for many a visitor descends,
ever since the artist was born.

On golden marches,
rested the traveler,
composing poems from scratches,
for non but the Romancer.

Like arms open wide,
the gate spreads itself,
and a visitor gets outside,
while another steps in blessed.

In sun, rain and cold,
waited the traveler,
patiently to be called,
by the respected Romancer.

Ink ran dry,
quills refusing to write,
parchments withered in cry,
and lips held poems which died.

With no sign of the Romancer,
and running out of hope,
broken to pieces was the traveler,
but gathering ideas in scope.

Through the keyhole,
peeped the traveler,
seeing a couple waltzing in a hall,
where stayed the Romancer.

Indeed no way in,
for the gate was well protected,
although it seemed to be a sin,
the traveler wished stones were sugar-coated.

But one day, the gate caught fire,
and the Romancer’s heart burned,
springing love’s most fervent desire,
into vermilion did the traveler turned.

The gate opened grandly,
but someone stood in the way.
The traveler could not enter freely,
thus leaving in dismay.

 

© Shy

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