When love begins to die

When love begins to die long poem

When love begins to die,
I call for a gathering of clouds,
‘where are you taking all the rains
we had stored in our hearts, me and my beloved?’
and the clouds say to me,

‘oh! you just waste them as tears!
we are taking them to other lovers in other cities.
there they grow flowers with it!’

when love begins to die,
I call for a gathering of bees,
‘where are you taking all the honey
we had spread on our tongue, me and my beloved?’
and the bees say to me,

‘oh! you just waste them in words!
we are taking them to other lovers in other cities.
there they spend them in kisses!’

when love begins to die,
I hold up the very waves,
‘where are you taking all the pearls
you had deposited at the shores, of me and my beloved?’
and the waves say to me,

‘oh! you just scatter them as children!
we are taking them to other lovers in other cities.
there they thread them into necklaces!’

when love begins to die,
I summon the very sky,
‘where are you taking all the stars
we had held in our eyes, me and my beloved?’
and the sky says to me,

‘oh! you just shut your eyes and go to sleep.
we are taking them to other lovers in other cities.
there they light the night with it!’

when love begins to die,
I stop the wind in its tracks,
‘where are you taking all the breeze
we had held in our mouths, me and my beloved?’
and the wind says to me,

‘oh! you just waste them as sighs!
we are taking them to other lovers in other cities,
there they laugh and laugh with it!’

when love begins to die,
I stop the birds in their flight,
‘where are you taking all the fire
we had held in our hips, me and my beloved?’
and the birds say to me,

‘oh! you just burn and burn yourself!
we are taking them to other lovers in other cities,
there they make children with it!
there they make children with it!’

This poem is part of the Poetry Book Oblivion

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Balaji Gopalan

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I owe all of my poetry to the influence of Pablo Neruda. Reading him 10 years ago on the beaches of Goa, gave me the permission to be who I am and write what I feel. My poetry has never been the same after that. All that I write is an offering to Neruda.
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