Poetry

๐™”๐™ค๐™ช, ๐™ˆ๐™š, ๐™‡๐™ค๐™ซ๐™š ๐™–๐™ฃ๐™™ ๐™ฉ๐™๐™š ๐™Ž๐™ ๐™ฎ

thee and i

und’r the eventide sky,

at which hour talketh,

๐˜ธ๐˜ช๐˜ต๐˜ฉ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜บ ๐˜ฆ๐˜บ๐˜ฆ๐˜ด

๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฌ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜จ ๐˜ด๐˜ต๐˜ณ๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜จ๐˜ฉ๐˜ต ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ฅ

๐˜ฅ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฑ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ต๐˜ฐ ๐˜ฎ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ,”

our souls starteth to unveil the

secret loveth did thrust in our hearts.

 

tis’ the soul yond weaves us,

into the fabric of loveth,

just holdeth mine own handeth

in this w’rldly sweaty haste.

 

t’ weaves us,

weaves,

with thee in the leadeth,

i treasure thou,

and,

thee respect me,

(๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ญ ๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜ญ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜จ๐˜ฐ๐˜ฅ ๐˜ฆ๐˜ณ๐˜ฐ๐˜ด!)

isn’t this what we needeth?

 

thee picketh up

the shatt’r’d pieces

of mine own heart,

and teachest me to loveth again,

thee picketh up the broken me,

and mendeth me again.

 

(๐˜ฐ๐˜ฉ ๐˜ญ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฎ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ!

๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜ญ๐˜ฐ๐˜ธ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ด ๐˜ฅ๐˜ข๐˜ฏ๐˜ค๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ ๐˜ช๐˜ฏ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ช๐˜ด ๐˜ณ๐˜ข๐˜ช๐˜ฏ๐˜ฆ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ.)

 

the beats of thy heart,

ah! so sweet the melody.

the lustfulness couldn’t outlaw

the pow’r of loveth.

and i realis’d yond,

๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ด๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ญ๐˜ด ๐˜ฉ๐˜ข๐˜ด๐˜ต ๐˜ข๐˜ฎ๐˜ข๐˜ญ๐˜จ๐˜ข๐˜ฎ๐˜ข๐˜ต๐˜ฆ๐˜ฅ,”

in the rhapsody,

of this azure surrounding,

๐˜ธ๐˜ช๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ต ๐˜ค๐˜ฐ๐˜ฆ๐˜ฒ๐˜ถ๐˜ข๐˜ญ ๐˜ต๐˜ฉ๐˜ฆ ๐˜ค๐˜ฐ๐˜ฏ๐˜ต๐˜ข๐˜ค๐˜ต ๐˜ฐ๐˜ง ๐˜ฐ๐˜ถ๐˜ณ ๐˜ค๐˜ฐ๐˜ณ๐˜ด๐˜ฆ.

 

 

~ Portia

Bhubneshwar, India

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