The novice…
You are my uninitiated one.
He drifts away slowly, yet glances back in secret,
Whistling now and then, just to trouble my heart.
The novice…
You are my uninitiated one.
At night I hear his voice in song,
Weaving colorful dreams through the silence.
He tries to make me believe each lyric
Was written only for me.
The novice…
You are my uninitiated one.
Passing the thorombal stall upon the street,
He points to bangles, to necklaces bright,
And teases: “Tell me, which one do you like?”
He says he is grown now, a man in love,
Mad with passion, writing poems for me.
The novice…
You are my uninitiated one.
He climbs the steps to my door,
And knocks with trembling hands.
Inside me stirs an unfamiliar feeling—
A flutter I cannot name.
The novice…
You are my uninitiated one.
