The breeze tousles through the night and his hair.
He sits in expectance for her to come here;
waiting for her to come this way.
Like that first time; her footsteps echoed so loud.
In a night as such not even the moon could be proud.
An ethereal glow she emitted, an embodying light.
The wind ruffled her black locks like an angel in flight.
Her breath was a sanctifying whisper of life
and her dress; oh a woven fabric of natures device.
Her soft traces upon the earth would have grown
the fruit bearing brushwood, piercing through a stone.
The hair settled; the wings retreated, her eyes slowly set
on a young boy tending tulips. Their gaze just then met.
He stared; what else could he do; she stood a little away.
The moon too curtsied to her outlining her portrait.
He stood tranquil, the tulip yet held in his hand.
She smiled and approached like a being with command.
She took the tulip, sniffing in its fragrance, sighing so deep,
the earth purred in compliance underneath her feet.
She smiled, oh a smile so knowing, yet so sad.
Unaware then he was of what was driving her mad.
She returned far 'way to her manor; he stood still.
She placed the tulip in an empty bowl on her window sill;
alas her draining life was now being filled.
The gardener was oblivious of her and her wealth,
her dwelling, her origin; her incurable health.
What he knew was that this girl shall come everyday
and pick a tulip off his garden, she surely will come his way.
The moonlight's placid reflection she was.
Stayed a fullmoon from then onwards, denying all laws.
She appeared through the mist like those sprites of old tales;
forcing sailors through nights to unclasp their sails.
She shall sway to and fro with a smile but no laugh.
He shall point out the best tulips on her behalf.
She shall glance at him and knowingly hide her face
He shall turn while she enfolds the tulip in her grace.
Then suddenly one night, the echoes disappeared.
The night was so empty, the angel's wrath the boy feared.
He waited till late till the moon too resigned
a tulip in one hand, till the sun rose behind.
With uneasiness like a ripple disturbing a pond,
the boy sat that noon, his mind far beyond
the realms of his peace, the confinement of his verve
this foliage of his, an illustrious oeuvre.
He wondered and pondered and wondered again,
whether the skylark shall sing ever again.
He knew not too, where the skylark perched;
thus his mind yearned escape but he couldn't abide by this urge.
So he waited for days, oh for months, no, for years;
feverishly tending tulips which he knew pulled her here.
Beside the gate he sat hoping to see in the haze
her ethereal glow; he sat waiting for her to come this way.
To again stand beside with no words to be said
as she moves so sleekly admiring the tulip bed.
To witness a reach with so tender a touch
and pluck a tulip as delicate as her; was this asking too much?
But the culprit named hope forced the poor boy indeed;
to his allies, reason and time he gave little heed.
Till his ears too gave up on him, his hair too grew thin.
Yet his eyes stayed with him, so did his aching heart within.
If only he could see in the mountains behind
where hidden in depths a forsaken manor you'll find
of its loftiest towers, on the window sill
a bowl was placed which withered tulips now filled.
After many a year
The breeze still tousles through the night and his hair.
With a tulip in one hand, he sits in expectance,
waiting for her to come this way.