24 September, 2013

Irony

Love, I was told, was a beautiful story
of togetherness and friendship and romance and glory
That when in love, you adorn the little gifts life bestow
A lie they say, and here let the truth be told
 
The play of love, is indeed great
but not A Winter’s Tale or a Tempest
A Twelfth Night Comedy perhaps, or a of Errors
The writer is seldom Cupid, and is more likely Momus
 
To spend your life, he gives you two options
To find love, he gives two choices
One, is the one you hopelessly, irretrievably, love
The one made for you is the other
 
He jests and mocks and scorns and shows
He makes you walk the desert on burning shoals
He makes you bleed, in hope of the one you love
and he gives you, someone better than you had hoped
 
But He doesn’t understand Love doesn’t work that way
There’s no one better than the one to whom our heart we gave
We don’t want the righteous reward for our toils
we just want to hold her close, her embrace,
 
So do you learn to live with the one you chance upon?
or you strive to find the one you were made for
Do you try, fail, get crushed, and try again?
or do you move on as if she never happened
 
I know when my perfect woman arrives
I shall have the courage to look deep into her eyes
hold her hand, wipe a tear from her eyes
bring my lips close to her ear, and slowly whisper,
‘Sorry, I’m married’
 
 Vishal Gupta
May 30th, 2013