Suffering from the pangs of seclusion and hankering for a look and glimpse of his love partner he stretches his hands towards the horizon but in vain, she is not there nor his voice is audible to her and the distance between the two increases tens of times with the passage of time and out of a sheer disgust he cries in the vacuum “…In the void air towards thee my strained arms are cast”. Much easier it is to pursue a loose sort of love but tremendously difficult and tortuously painful to go for the one that is serenely ecstatic with an absolute satiation close to Divine where pangs of seclusion are manifest much larger in more serene an order on the face of the partners with the whole world in their fist. Possibly it was this kind of love for which Thomas Hardy made the lady of one of his novels wandering alone in the Egdon Heath crying “Give me love, my Lord, give it to me, give it, give it” (sic). Love is not a kabaddi game or a lust, love is a great sacrifice.
Some of my beloved readers requested me to write something exclusively on love and to meet their requisition I put up here one of my poems in the form of prose, hence this writeup.