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He hurried down the hill, the playful butterfly,

Thirsting for his queen, the morning rose;

She turned her face, shunned the fickle lover,

The rose;

Fluttered the butterfly closer,

Tenderly to woo the rose,

Beg for mercy,

To caress once more her silken blossom,

Languorously to cradle in her folds;

Aloof she stood in the rising sun, the rose;

In the vanity of her solitude,

Frigid, in the pervasive warmth that arose,

Naked, deceived and betrayed,

Indignant by the deep humiliation,

The Queen of flowers, the rose!

Her magnificent crimson petals, she had shed,

Her strong, splendid green leaves had fallen,

Her sharp, shielding thorns were gone,

Lost in the wilderness her alluring perfume;

One time the butterfly stroke her,

Forever he touched her soul!

Anita Bacha

http://poetryofanitabacha.com/

 When words fail me

 Know that my thoughts are with you

Anita Bacha

 

 In silence I probe my heart

 To write some lines for you

 ‘Ask the meadow!’  Says my heart

 ’Ask the flower!’ Says the meadow

 ‘Ask the lake!’ Says the flower

 

Lulled by quiet inspiration

 These lines I write for you

 

Afloat on a lake of heavenly bliss

 In the meadow of my heart

On a bed of scented flowers

Your memory lingers

 As profound as the still waters

As vast as the meadow

As nostalgic as the perfume of wild blooms

 

If I were to forget you

I would forget the meadow, the flower, the lake

I would forget my poetry

Anita Bacha