"and he was overwhelmed by the belated suspicion that it is life, more than death, that has no limits."
Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera
My dear, this human life bestowed on us
In a translucent moonlight of love,
Which gives itself away to peals of thunder,
To lethal strokes, to the poetry of an apocalyptic spring
Waits for us, cloaked in the endless echoing of the universe.
Do you remember, long before, when you and me
Were traipsing around the vast expanse of the Mediterranean sea,
The moody, dark tracks of the Sindhu river,
Trading our finite dimensions with the infinite ballad of the stars?
This life, we made it what it is, the language of alive poems, the dance in motion,
The earth of our progeny, as we rode off to the deadliest edge of nowhere.
Could the shackles of death alter the spirit of fire in our voices,
The unhindered bouts of procreation,
The muse of the silken moonbeams rushing through our homes?
This human life, my dear, the salt of the ocean in our eyes,
The aroma of that shameless song sprung up from unlit skies before dawn,
The strong, slow-cooked truth that we nibble on, before the sudden darkening of the horizon.
My dear, I've been telling you about this human life without boundaries.
This life which dances its climactic dance over the raw, red cliff
This life which spins around the paroxysm of death.