Love floats by,
reaching,
tantalising,
meandering,
tip-toeing past pain,
leaping through walls,
weakening the barricades,
of the most private heart.
Love settles in,
trusting,
searching,
dissolving,
quietly beyond anguish,
erasing the desolation,
soothing a battered spirit,
enveloping the shivering soul.
Love stays, it is true,
love endures, as do you
The Women
(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)
Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,
they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid’s racist hell.
They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,
and white was right in South Africa back then,
but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,
you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their ‘racial superiority’, their taunts, their threats.
You, my mother, would not, could not break,
You stood firm, you stood tall.
You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.
You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,
the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,
my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,
by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.
You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.
You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,
you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,
you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.
Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,
all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.
I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,
the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.
I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,
you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,
of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.
I salute you!
(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)
A Mangled Heart…
Why do my tears not simply fall,
my heart mangled, cast along these empty streets
a wreck left to rust, bleakly lost in the blurry haze,
my dreams blowing in the dust of the passing days.
Why do my tears not simply fall,
weeping within, fractured inside,
memories of you wounding me still,
a void so vast no one else can ever fill,
cradling memories, glowing with your light,
as another day departs, beckoning one more,
barren, cold, hollowed-out wednesday night
A Nonsensical Scribble
Vivid colours,
straining, yearning,
closeted between hues,
weaving tapestries,
flowing through shades,
dissolving my swirling blues.
Rainbows merge,
singing plaintive dirges,
etched on dusty rough sleeves
urgent scribbles,
humming notes of woe,
hurriedly embossed on fallen leaves.
Melodies quicken,
words entombed in mouths,
fading, trapped in emerald green,
seizing dreamscapes,
blurring glimpses of truth,
slipping between visions unseen.
My heartbeat gallops,
committing ink to paper,
donning a smile blatantly comical,
I catch myself napping,
stirred by a nagging realisation,
the scribbles, much like the scribbler,
seem to be, quite humourlessly nonsensical.
SSRI’s and I…
… the sounds of thoughts clattering, my neurones sparking,
like Dylan said, my morning recedes jingling and a-jangling,
worn down by this leaden knot, tearing my insides out,
the cacophony drowned in a whisper, lost in a silent shout,
dreams and screams scratching the back of my dry throat,
caged in, liberation hovering like a mirage beyond the moat.
I claw my way, slowly, through a thicket of solitude,
feeling my emotions peeling, stung by unseen nettles,
crawling to an open field, to rest, beneath a sky ablaze with stars,
as my mind glides, brushing the soft grass as it peacefully settles …
My Wishes are Simple
My wishes are simple,
my desires few,
to gaze upon an ocean,
and marvel at a solitary drop of dew.
My wishes are simple,
my dreams not too grand,
to feel the waves teasing my tired feet,
with no footprints left in the cool, wet sand.
My wishes are simple,
my thoughts serenely gentle, calm,
my heart resting beneath a swaying palm,
healing my being, caressed by nature’s soothing balm.
Consumption
Scurrying between gleaming malls,
sniffing through the latest bargains,
that are crucified onto sterile walls,
crawling amidst those sanitised aisles,
glazed eyes darting frenetically, hungry,
leaving not a trace on the polished tiles,
gnawing at the endless, dead queues,
shirts, skirts, jeans into trolleys flung,
then straight to the closet to be hung,
pompous odours foul each aroused breath,
scraping, bowing before these mute deities,
an intoxicated swirly haze of lustful gaieties ,
it never ceases, this relentless, frantic surge,
always unable to quench the insatiable urge,
stopping briefly, only for an occasional purge,
as we continue, & continue , to numbly splurge
The Beach of Promises
1.
Fingers entwined, barely touching,
turquoise waters teasing your dancing toes,
strolling along that serene deserted beach,
our promised dreams within aching reach.
2.
Hands clasped, holding on,
sea-breezes tickling the nape of your neck
walking together, alone, vowing to never breach,
the dreams dreamed on that faraway velvet beach.
3.
Hands in my pockets, alone,
traces of you linger, teasing,
lost in my scribbles, your memory fading out of reach,
my thoughts ablaze, now and then,
catching a whiff of your fragrance,
wafting through alleyways of nostalgia,
your hand in mine on our pristine beach.
You whispered in my ear,
a breathy secret, hushed.
“I love you”, you murmured.
I said nothing,
lost, in your arms,
I found a home. At last.
“I love you”, you said,
I said nothing,
lost in my thoughts,
I found peace. At last.
“I love you”, you said,
words failed me then.
They still do
Where Wild Violets Grow
Scribbling these verses,
caressing your bare back,
simple rhymes,
flowing from my fingertips.
Scribbling verses,
sprinkling odes to fragrant promises,
your smile lightens the burdens,
off my heavy heart.
Scribbling verses,
soaked in countless kisses,
the moonlight waltzing on your skin.
Scribbling verses,
feeling you,
your love never ceases to flow,
through the streams of my mind,
to a place of our own,
where wild violets grow.
I stand, alone.
Scratching for my truths,
peeling away the veneer,
I stand, alone, before this
impregnable cliff so sheer.
Cocooned in my solitary shell,
wrenching a smile from a tear,
I stand, alone, a little odd,
and definitely quite queer.
I stand, alone.
The Nameless
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Slipping through the sieve of history,
the nameless rest.
Not for the nameless are roads renamed, nor monuments built.
Not for the nameless are songs sung, nor ink spilled.
The nameless rest.
Their silent sacrifice,
quiet ordeal,
muted trauma,
remain interred,
amongst their remains.
The nameless rest.
Not for the nameless are doctorates conferred, nor eulogies recited.
Not for the nameless are honours bestowed, nor homages directed.
The nameless rest.
They rest within us,
they walk with us,
in every step that we tread.
They rest within us,
they walk with us,
for their spirit is not dead.
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“Your name is unknown, your deed is immortal”
– inscription at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier WWII in Moscow
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Special thanks to my dearest elder sister Tasneem Nobandla Moolla, whose conversations with me about life as a non-white person growing up in pre and post-Apartheid South Africa prompted me to write this dedication to the countless, nameless South Africans of every colour, whose sacrifices and dedication in the struggle against Apartheid tyranny must never be forgotten.
My sister’s middle name ‘Nobandla’ which is an isiXhosa name and means “she who is of the people” was given by her godfather, Nelson Mandela, my father’s ‘best-man who could not be, as Nelson Mandela was unable to-make it to my parent’s wedding as he was in jail at the time in the old Johannesburg Fort. This was the 31st December 1961.
Madness
Confined by this straight-jacket,
strapped in, numb and dumbed,
a washed-out, has-been, also-ran,
body, eyes, the equilibrium of mind,
rattling like stones in an old tin-can.
Still, I am,
I am,
and I am unchained,
my dreams taking flight, soaring,
above these claustrophobic walls,
of synapses, and dungeons of stone,
swooping through green valleys,
taking a detour to savour the joys,
soaked in torrential, evergreen memories,
of a younger man, with passion in his bone.
I am.
My wings unclipped, unshackled, free,
I am, and though I am unable to see,
I am.
At long last,
me.
The Sound of Distant Ankle Bells
Memories of those delicate tinkling bells,
casually fastened around calloused feet,
take hold of my waking moments,
and fling my thoughts back to a distant time,
where folk-songs were heartily sung,
joyful, yet hopelessly out of rhyme.
I barely saw her, a construction labourer perhaps,
hauling bricks, cement, anything, on a scorching Delhi day,
while in the semi-shade of a Gulmohar tree, her infant silently lay.
A cacophony of thoughts such as these swirl around,
yanking me away from the now, to my cow-dung littered childhood playground.
Now, a lifetime of displacement has hushed the jangling chorus of the past,
to a faint trickle of sounds, as distant as an ocean heard inside tiny sea-shells,
and,
I know, that the orchestral nostalgic crescendo, rises, dips, and swells,
as tantalisingly near, yet a world of time away, as were the tinkling of her ankle-bells.
She
She smiled, gently,
her warmth infusing me,
with a serene stillness of time.
She settled, slowly,
in my waking thoughts,
a soothing balm of simple joy.
She remains, scribbled,
on the walls of my fractured heart,
memories of happiness that once breathed…
…and is no more
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The Petty Posh-Wahzee – Liberation & Ostentation
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The Not-So Distant Past:
The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.
They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.
Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,
and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.
The Present:
19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,
a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.
I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,
our ancestors’ plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.
Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,
babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,
yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,
needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,
for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.
A veil of smiles,
worn effortlessly.
Tuning out the blurring din,
alone in the cackling throng,
never hoping to belong,
though pining to fit-in.
Peeling off the thin facade,
feeling the pained charade,
melting into the dim parade.
Trickling effortlessly down,
over the strained contours,
of a spurious laugh,
the tears of the clown,
rehearsed, rehashed,
form an unending cold stream,
dissolving the lingering traces,
of this simple boy’s dream
Within Me
Flowing through the rivulets of my everyday thoughts,
memories of you surface, gasping for air, breathing in,
permeating, absorbed by the pores of my ageing skin.
Famished, greedily gulping mouthfuls of fractured life,
awash in distant yesteryear, when your feathery kisses,
banished the vacuum, dispelling my anguish and strife.
You are eternally carved, and embroidered into my soul,
I wash ashore, smashing against the boulders of the now,
seeking solace, begging for absolution with my empty bowl.
The book of fate is sealed shut, the tea-leaves have been read,
nothing remains within me, the burden of smiling has been shed.
Now I am stranded, between dreams and the empty years ahead,
searching for forgiveness, in the miles I have yet to wearily tread.
Without you,
worn down, weary,
staggering into tomorrow,
dissolving my todays, grim, dreary,
I crawl, slipping out of my skin,
flinging laughter, joy, contentment,
into the gaping abyss of life’s dustbin.
Without you
You and I.
You.
Your heart blazed,
with a warmth of spirit,
soothing,
alluring,
soaked in truth.
Your smile burned,
branding me permanently,
gentle,
tender,
enveloping my being.
Your love was complete,
from the depths of your soul,
unsaid,
yet fierce,
bathed in silent knowing.
Your dreams were poetic,
fluttering in the afternoon breeze,
infused with the distilled essence of rhyme.
I.
I squandered your generosity of spirit.
I vainly discarded your priceless poetry.
Now I stand,
alone,
empty,
desolate,
wasting away,
rotting inside, day by day.
The Sieve of Time
Cast ashore,
along the banks of time,
whirling through the passing years,
clinging to futile scribbles set in rhyme,
Cast ashore,
thrust into an unrehearsed pantomime,
clenching slivers of joy as weariness descends,
lulled into a peaceful slumber exhilaratingly sublime.
Cast ashore,
hazily adrift, a dandelion seed on the wings of time,
trapped in the sieve of spiralling memories,
caught between pristine bliss, and reeking slime.
Cast ashore,
flung aside for no discernible crime,
my human heart thuds with elusive hope,
though battered, bruised and covered in grime,
I stagger ashore, alone,
embracing each moment of detached, oblivious time.
Then:
Desire enveloped us,
stoking fierce passions,
beneath a milky moon,
your abandoned kisses,
left me breathless,
under a starlit sky,
love silenced our nights,
a serene peace settling,
filling empty desolation,
at rest at long last,
your presence my final abode,
each caress rich with hope.
Now:
your absence is felt,
each day, every night,
throttling my dreams,
crawling inside a void,
my crumbling heart weary,
knowing you may never return,
all promises lay strewn,
like quiet wilting flowers,
brushing against my thoughts,
defeated by your love,
my tortured breathing,
is shallow, agonising, slow,
each memory a jagged ache,
knowing you left,
a thousand moons ago.
Digging deep, entrenched,
barricaded against love’s bayonet,
securing the heart,
impregnable, shielded,
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but,
love breaches the lines.
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The defences crumble,
walls of steel melt away,
shields are lowered,
minefields disappear,
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as,
love overwhelms the night.
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Alone now, desolate, exposed,
my embattled heart lies injured,
the fatal blow being dealt by you…
…in the trenches, in love.
Mora Piya Ghar Aaya (My Beloved Has Returned Home)
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Autumn:
the leaves fell, as you left, a bleak chill wafting across the barren space within my being,
you left, taking your smile and mine,
my smile rests with you still, leaving a void impossible to fill.
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Winter:
pangs of longing consumed me, my only company in the frigid nights,
my tears remain frozen, within,
unable to fall from my broken eyes, as I searched the depths of the cold, harsh skies.
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Spring:
birds returned home, though you did not, and I felt soothing rebirth all around,
memories of you began blazing, their embers stoked,
and at last the tears rolled, like ink on this blank notebook, my whole being pined for you, my very self in anguish silently shook.
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Summer:
alive I felt again, the promise of the coming cooling rain, easing the heat of desire,
yet the furnace slowly raged inside, your absence tearing into me, shattering my nights, my longing for you soaring unfettered across the skies,
dancing on clouds, blissfully free,
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Monsoons:
heaven itself opened, the deluge an unending dream,
rain falling all around, mingling with my flowing tears,
and then I saw you, you returned, and I embraced you, never wishing to let you go,
and though I may wear the mask of the clown,
if you were to leave again,
my very soul, would quietly slip away, and in the monsoon rains, I would gratefully drown.
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scribblerofverses@gmail.com
a hollow shell
of tangled synapses
sparked into gradual madness
which drowns out the truths of the day
as the mind reeks of the rotten sad moments
that swirl in the rancid soup of forgotten dreams
dreams that once traced a gentle path of innocence
dreams that reached for pure love’s tender touch
dreams now paralysed but once vivaciously alive
what became of those fresh dreams and hopes
as they lie mustily on dusty bookshelves
torn into shreds by time’s fine scimitar
devoid of the touch of raw passion
when all that remains of love is
a hollow shell
The Canvas of Night
Stars like sprinkled sugar,
lay strewn across the canvas of night,
…
enthralled by the wonder of the cosmos,
my dreams take to the heavens in effervescent flight,
…
I bathe in the beauty, soaked in sublime delight,
absorbed in moments of bliss, transfixed by the serene sight.
…
Stars like sprinkled sugar,
lay strewn across the canvas of night,
…
and my being is infused with feelings of hope,
for even in darkness I find the sprinkled sugar of hope’s light.
…
note: special thanks to one of my heroes, the late Dr. Carl Sagan, for making science accessible to younger me, many, many moons ago.
…
Tomorrow is Ours.
…
Suffocating beneath the weight of historical fear,
asphyxiated by the legacy of traumatised yesteryear,
…
the festering wounds of enslavement still remain,
juggling euphemisms in a crisp sound-bitten refrain,
…
spewing out neo-liberal economic charades,
doling out charity in strips of plastic band-aids,
…
but,
…
tomorrow shall be ours,
…
casting away subservient mind-sets that shackle,
no longer the weakened prey of the insatiable jackal,
…
tomorrow shall be ours,
…
we shall reclaim our plundered mindspaces,
we shall shed our chains, leaving behind the traces,
…
of past injustice, of the hurt and pain of our ancestors’ sorrows,
…
we are here, now, alive with hope,
…
we shall rightfully claim our own tomorrows…
Mido Macia 1986 – 2013
Mido Macia was a 27 year old Mozambican man, working in Daveyton near Johannesburg as a taxi-driver, who was found dead in a police cell, after police savagely dragged Mr. Macia whom they had tied to their police van.
The brutal incident of Mr. Macia being dragged was caught on camera and has shocked South Africa.
The 8 police officers involved are facing charges of murder, and have been suspended from the South African Police Service (SAPS).
This poem is an angry poem that I felt had to be written, because as a society, we need to ask ourselves and each other the hardest questions about xenophobia and intolerance and violence.
Mido Macia 1986 – 2013
Death came to Mido Macia,
a savage, brutal, hellish death came to Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
death dressed-up in the colours of authority,
as callous, vile, sadistic policemen murdered Mido Macia.
The video-footage is blood-curdling,
Mido Macia being dragged,
his hands tied behind him,
to a police van.
But death came later to Mido Macia,
death cheered, clapped, and tore into Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
in the cells where they murdered Mido Macia.
Death came to Mido Macia,
a fuelled, cheered-on, instigated death came to Mido Macia.
We are all culpable,
every one of us is culpable,
from racist ‘jokes’ emailed and texted,
to self-righteous comments about the ‘foreigners’,
from casual dinner-table conversations,
‘they take our jobs’,
‘they are crooks’
the ‘they marry our women’ kind of lunch-time chats,
racist, xenophobic, hate-filled talk,
to beating a human-being to death in a police cell,
or on the streets of Cape Town, Johannesburg ,
and in Daveyton,
where death came to Mido Macia.
Mido Macia 1986 – 2013
…
… Passion in D-Major …
It was felt, the sensuous brush-strokes on a canvas,
swirling,
to a symphonic crescendo,
of our shared heartbeats,
fading between the notes,,
feeling your soft body entwined with mine,
your form bathed in my infinite kisses,
our orchestral desire rising,
conducting a shared fusing of passion,
… the music echoing …
over the precipice,
on the brink of dazzling rainbow hues,
lost in the void,
of an eternal instant,
plunging through the depths of rhyme,
pleading,
forever pleading,
for a prolonged …
bouquet of shared time…
…
The Scribbler’s most vocal critic…
😉 Illegitimi non carborundum 🙂
Staggering, my vision cloudy,
I fall to the hard ground.
when life’s sharp left-jab leaves my face bloody,
and all that surrounds me, is the desolation of loss I feel all around.
…
I see myself slipping,
down the abyss to where nothingness exists,
still, I cling on, groping for a foothold,
for my will to stay persists.
…
I clamber up, I stand my ground, though battered and bruised I may be,
my curtain is not falling yet, I have some fight still left in me.
…
It is then, in the pit of despair, when all seems bleak and painful and dull,
I summon the strength from deep within,
I rise, slowly, to face the day,
I refuse to sink,
to wallow, to surrender, to throw in the towel,
to drown,
for I am stronger now,
indeed I am, after all the years, and all the battles,
I stand, bruised and bloody,
still,
I stand,
I refuse, to sink, to drown,
for they can try, to punish me some more,
but I shall not allow them to grind me down… 😉
A Chipped Heart
Dreaming, my heart brittle as glass,
my solitary facade a pitiful farce,
shards tearing out of my skin,
seeking release, from cages within,
I am lost, in the dream,
bellowing out a silent scream,
torn from reality, drowning in the now,
yet I refuse,
I refuse to succumb,
I refuse to bow.
My chipped heart, may be wounded,
wreathed in pain,
still,
I believe, love, truth, belonging,
will take my hand,
again…
Distant African Nights.
1.
The shadows swayed in your candlelit room,
a cool breeze teasing your bare back,
streaks of lightning forked in the Johannesburg night,
as my hands stroked your hair,
kissing your soft mouth,
holding you, ever so tight.
2.
You whispered that you loved me, and I kept silent,
the rain fell, the shadows danced, the thunder rolled, the breeze teased your naked back,
you whispered that you loved me,
as my lips found yours,
the rain washed over our tender nights,
lightning and candlelight etching poems on your burnished skin,
yet a fear gnawed at me, deep within.
3.
We parted ways, and you could never forgive me, you said,
now, after numberless thunderstorms,
the rain that falls,
are the countless tears that I have shed.
4.
You are long gone, far away and happy, I pray,
yet the memories persist,
those precious moments shall never, ever trickle away,
and I wish you well, for loving me as you did,
it was I who was not worthy,
then,
it is I who is not worthy now,
for you were always true,
it was I who always, always,
never allowed myself,
to give myself, completely to you.
Saturday Rain in Johannesburg…
…With sighs of torrential passion,
the heavens shower teardrops,
weeping with me,
as memories of you come cascading back,
skin on skin, ablaze,
moist kisses, fiery,
gentle whispers of undying love, murmured,
in another life, another time,
far removed from my present, a desolate state of despair,
wallowing in the grime.
…
The rain keeps falling,
each teardrop stinging my face,
tasting the salt on my lips,
I wonder, do you still remember the caresses of my fingertips,
between breathy confessions, and vows of eternal love,
before you left me, stranded on an island of solitude,
wounded as a wingless dove,
bereft of life,
stripped of all traces of fortitude
a 2:00 AM scribble…
’twas but a lifetime ago
when she floated as if in a dream
when the whistling winds
called out her name
while the truth was revealed
of her love supreme
she walked into the barren landscape of my world
and carved-up an exclusive place
excising the pain as the standard of love fluttered in the breeze once it was unfurled
she walked into the solitary vacuum of a heart rendered mute
instilling in that heart a passion that became impossible to refute
a passion blazing with renewed belief
with solitude consigned to the shadows
and despair shunned into the night like an scurrying thief
her touch was gentle, her manner warm and light
her love an endless sea of possibility
washing up against the shores of my moonless night
and when that burst of colour came through
like a dozen rainbows in the monsoon twilight
her face like a revelation shone
as I silently, in awe, gazed at that miraculous sight
and though a lifetime ago it seems
she regularly dances between the cotton-wool clouds of my dreams
and she infuses my each and evey moment with a love so strong
that effortlessly soothes me knowing that I belong
in the haven of her warm embrace
as I gaze lovingly
at her wondrous face
and into those eyes that pull me closer into the ocean of desire
while my spirit soars up into the heavens, ever so higher
it takes but a moment with her to know
that these feelings shall prevail
for they diminish not, as they continually grow
spawning a paradisical garden of emotion and love
and being entwined in her arms seems like a gift from above
for here is where I always hope to be
anchored safely by her side, and not adrift in the emptiness of the vast lonesome sea
so allow me to thank thee
for the lifeline you cast as I lay drowning in thought
and for being the treasure trove of love that I have always sought
so stay well, sweet one
and remember me once or twice in a moon of blue
and know forever that these scribbled words
are deeply felt and forever shall be, eternally true…
Scribbled Verse 