Hands cling to hands and eyes linger on eyes: thus begins the record of our hearts.
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It is the moonlit night of March; the sweet smell of henna is in the air; my flute lies on the earth neglected and your garland of flowers in unfinished.
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This love between you and me is simple as a song.
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Your veil of the saffron colour makes my eyes drunk.
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The jasmine wreath that you wove me thrills to my heart like praise.
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It is a game of giving and withholding, revealing and screening again; some smiles and some little shyness, and some sweet useless struggles.
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