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Pramod Rastogi |
Pramod Rastogi
Emeritus Professor
Swiss Federal Institute of Technology (EPFL), Switzerland
In the Glow of Evening
In the silence of the evening,
Where the last light lingers like a whispered secret,
Memories rekindle, soft flames in the heart.
Your eyes, stars guiding through the endless dark,
Hold a paradise I can never forget,
An embrace woven of promises and quiet truths.
Tears fall not from sorrow,
But from the weight of love’s enduring glow,
A warmth that stays close to me,
Even as the world shifts and fades.
Love is not a fleeting moment,
But the thread that ties the heavens to the earth,
A light that rekindles every time we remember,
Every time we choose never to let go.
***
Flames of Love
When I gazed at her,
A spark awoke the dormant fire,
And glowing red, I blushed anew.
Her smile fanned the embers bright,
And from their warmth, love’s poems flew.
Each word, a flicker, tender and shy,
Tracing her presence, the how and why.
Her laughter wove verses, soft and sweet,
And with each line, my heart would beat.
The flames of love, they danced and leapt,
Through silent nights and dreams well-kept.
No parchment vast enough to hold,
The story of love, both fierce and bold.
***
Echoes of a Dream
One day, wandering through the woods,
I glimpsed a lady bathing in a pond,
Her cotton saree clinging to murmurs of water.
Time faltered as her gaze met mine.
Transfixed by the lightning of that moment,
I let my eyes return her gaze,
A longing wrapped in molten desire,
Strong enough to melt glaciers to streams.
She was sweetness incarnate, a rare bloom.
The verses I murmured to her beauty
Fell like drops of nectar,
Binding us in an unspoken bond.
Hand in hand, we walked wooded trails
To the quiet warmth of her humble hut.
With a promise to meet again, I departed,
Yet she vanished, leaving only her memory.
Was she a fragment of some vivid dream,
Rippling through the still waters of my life?
She took with her my only love,
Leaving me a poet of colored dreams —
A heart bled dry, now painting the world
In hues of red and rose,
Forever caught in the ache
Of what was, or what might have been.
***
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