Hot and Cold

Walk me not on nettled paths,
Or, crown my hair
With prose and rhyme.
The floribunda is not what I seek —
Canopies such as these are thine.

Woo me not by nectarine words,
Nor invade with scythe unkind.
Let heaps of coronets
Fall on your lap —
Let them bestow on you their shine.

No spangling stars for free I want.
Neither razed in form should I stand,
Jeered and lulled, from time to time,
By mock pedestals
Falsely divine.

Without the swing of moods —
On talking terms our words should speak.
No songs I need, no lullabies.
His Grace alone is enough for me —
He alone, pray, He is kind!

Mumbai, 1997

Geeta Chhabra

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