The dried red rose, that,
Still serves as a bookmark,
Once you had bought for me,
Without any occasion special,
Only on a heart's call...
Was it love ?
That sketch you made for me,
On the reverse of an empty,
Cigarette packet, some motifs,
Of your puzzled mind, and said,
Keep it, for someday, I may not be,
Was it love ?
Those walk down the haphazard lanes,
On chilled winter evenings, foggy,
Misty, gloomy, yet, warm with feelings,
Reasons unknown, destination unreached,
Saw a brighter moon, stars had glitter more,
Was it love ?
Countless waits, numberless annoy,
Speechless days passed in agony,
Known facts, unbelievable truths,
Hidden, camouflaged from all eyes,
A fragile trust of belonging, till the end,
Was it love ?
Years passed by, time did not wait,
It was only me waiting relentlessly,
Still I wait... thousand years gone...
Answer duped me... like ever...
No answer, for, silence never speak,
Was it love ?
Only question remains !!!
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