The Moor by Subroto Mukerji

Once, I touched her dimpled arm,

In this, I thought, what was the harm?
Lost was I from that hour on,
To toss in bed from dusk to dawn.

And as I walked the moor at night,

She flew, angelic, to my side,
She gave me strength to fight the thing
I had no hope of overcoming.

In darkness strode the cheerless plain,

And lo! She was beside again,
The breeze: it tossed her silken hair,
As I burned on in my despair.

Her perfect features warmed the night,

As I fought me with all my might,
I fain would kiss her lips so wild,
as my senses swam, beguiled.

The heather was so soft and warm,

Where two could tarry till the dawn;
I gently took her lovely hand,
And saw her home as I’d not planned.

T’was nothing but a dream, you see,

A mind-trick weaved to torture me,
For who can hope beyond his lot,
And none can change the written plot.

T’was but a dream my wishful mind,

Conjured to torment me, unkind,
And with the day it did disperse,
to leave me scribbling gloomy verse.

© Subroto Mukerji