All Lovers Know (Adipoetry Valentine’s Poem)

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all lovers know
i am with you tonight
for the time I spend with you
the roses fall off voluntarily
so every lover can pick an’ feel the scent of love
on valentine’s night when roses are reincarnated
into eternal perfume of your sweetness.

all lovers know
i am with you always
for every night the roof of my sky erupts with thriving flowers
as rain of red roses falls in my heart
my lover, mix it with warm sunshine this night
and my heart shall surely glow
tonight it’s valentine’s…
give me a flute
i just found lyrics to loot
from poetry of birds twittering in the night,
the wind is a wireless musical instrument
come we dance all through.

all lovers know
i am insane
out of my mind
and deep inside your heart
where ballad of your blood nourishes my soul
i am not leaving…
if your heart becomes a desert
i will be the sand dunes.
if your heart turns into a sea
i will be the tides.
my lover, if your heart grows into a mountain
i will be its towering heights.
if your heart bursts into a sky
i will be its remote distance.
if it sinks into an abyss
i will be its unfathomable depth.
if your heart loses me
i will loosen myself.
and if your heart chooses to become a day
i will name it valentine’s.

London Times

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I gather your lost poem, untethering this love song
from the cold of London streets
Black River Nile meets White River Thames
I arrived atop the Blackhorse
through tubes running like massive roots of the Baobab
I saw the Seven Sisters, Black Friars and Waterloo
but I saw you too, dancing to the coming winter in blue
whistled by the mythical Thames and the logical Nile…
the poet didn’t go insane, he was counting London night stars
a billion lights that couldn’t match your beautiful eyes:
the bulbs of my heart, connected to electrons of your blood
shone more than ever…
I am in tears my song, London is raining…
London is draining my memory,
London is straining…
inside of me.
I lost your poem with Heathrow’s throw into London basement
Central London is still lost in my world.
I am darker than the coming of the rain
but this poem is handwritten by stars in bright skies
of the Kingdom…
The old stone is new to my own eyes:
Westminster Abbey and Houses of Parliament –
the politics of poetry rumble in the din of the Piccadilly line,
at Charing Cross, Trafalgar Square grabbed my height
when the poppy blossomed in the fireworks above the Cenotaph
and the Queen, o my, the Queen strode the streets!