From the Rostrum

…Tie now my hands.
Force petals back into a bud.
Try bringing the rise of the sun
to… a… halt…
My poems flow —
like a mountain stream,
an inspiring talk —
Like that given ages ago by Plato
from a high rostrum
on a moonlit Greek night.
…With him in my life,
when I’m madly in love,
I’m just bound to write!
It’s my tribute to him,
it’s to him that I whisper
the lines from my heart:
“You are but my life-breath —
sweet as flower dust,
so fresh is the bud…”
I am bowing low
to the genius of Plato —
I can’t — thank him — enough:
I do learn from the great —
on the brink of a breakthrough —
to declare “I love…”