His fingers pluck no mandolin ,
He will not play the violin ,
No words accompanies the song he sings ,
And yet he serenades me to dreams .
When his love sings , it's impromptu ,
Together words he strings are few ,
This song is heard by only two ,
By ears that tune to lyrics true .
His song is the sound of troubled windows ,
Made against glass with pebbles he throws ,
Come winter and all that falls is snow ,
Pebbles are thrown no more , my sorrow grows .
But his serenading never ceases ,
With light tunes , my heart , he teases ,
In boxes of candy , and bouquets of flowers ,
My love for him begins to tower .
He serenades me with quiet whispers ,
When we splash our feet is silent rivers ,
Keeps me warm with tender embraces ,
My impromptu serenade , from my instrumentless lover .
This poem was purged out of my brain to meet literary demands made by my lovely Sepet.
1 comment:
Very beautiful, Enjoyed very much,
It sings on energy, it sings in my heart too.
Thank you
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