My cell is directly
Under your tower bell.
I could hear my tomorrows
Before they even begin.
I smile,
From this empty cell,
To all lows and highs,
With you,
I never know
Which wave I will take,
How far I will rise?

What will we do with love?
When,
Writing poems seems far easier
Than packing old suitcases,
Full of memories,
gifts and life time burdens.
The hardest part,
And the cleverest act
Is not to store them again,
in another cell,
another day,
another life.

Once,
a phone call was enough,
Not even a voice to say hello.
Just a check mark,
On a calendar,
to see,
if I am still here.
I am always here,
I am ripen in now.

Memories getting narrower,
In each breath,
I must let them go.
So my cell could expand in love,
To embrace you.
While moonlight pushes
my darkness
Inside your light,
My feminine Chellos
plays beautifully
The love songs.

I rise easterly,
from all I left behind
I know, I will set in your west,
In openness.

I can’t desire anymore,
No soul knows what that means
Unless
she falls in your love.

Freedom, is my new boundless cell
From one moon to another,
I know the ending,
And Yet
I let
The ripen apple falls.

Flows in stream of your unknown wind,
Without reading a horoscope
Or asking the gardener
Where am I going to?

Falls,
on your ground,
On his bench,
Under a shade
or inside the loves’ well.

What will we do with love,
Is
what we do with the Sun,
not important,
unless we experience
a life without a sun.

What love does to us,
Is the ripen apple,
A bird resembles another one
on a thin wire,
A moon
Rests in still water
of anonymous lake,
and
never
desire
another place,
or
another cell,
to be kept in.

Serena Devi, Sept 2011

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