The Enchantress

By Shambhavi Singh

O! If only I could stop admiring her.

A grown man should never fall into such despair,

By the locks of her curly black hair tucked at the ear.

Long-haired, moonlit-faced maiden,

Answer me, for I long to know:

Are you nature’s finest creation,

Or a divine vision beyond earthly grace?

She paints her eyes black with kajal

And adorns herself with a bindi,

But does she not know how her eyes alone captivate

every man or woman alike, present in a room?

She makes every woman jealous of her ethereal beauty,

And every man’s heart throb for her,

All done by her mere presence.

She carries herself with utmost grace,

But beneath that veil

I see a tiger’s stance,

Ready to prey on anyone who dares to attack her with

their poisoning words.

The Moon could try to compete with your beauty, my love, but it is unmatched.

One look at you, and it would turn away in shame.

If anyone could break the illusion of the Moon as the prettiest

thing in the night sky,

It’s you.

Her smile is like a lotus floating on a still lake,

Gleaming in the moonlight—enchanting.

O, lady!

What spell have you cast upon me?

Why do I dream of you and you only, every night and day?

Why do you make me want to hold your lovely bangled hands,

To apply alta on your feet,

And to braid your hair when you’re busy?

O Heavens, tell me! What is this misery?

To want to hold her in my arms,

While knowing in the depths of my consciousness

That I can’t have her?

To admire her beauty from afar is not enough;

I want all of her.

Is this what desperation feels like?

If I were asked to walk through a field of thorns,

Barefoot, to pluck a lone rose blooming in the middle

of the field for her,

I would.

I would do that and so much more—all for her.

O young maiden!

I know how you make every man chase you,

And yet, tell me—

How many truly see you, want you for yourself alone, not just for beauty?

I see you for who you are now,

A compassionate, confident, generous woman.

Tender like a rose, but whose thorns would prick anyone

who goes against you.

O good Lord! Is this insanity?

Not a day goes by without me wanting her more.

My desires may grow each day, but they never turn wild.

Oh my, she feels so unreal!

She leaves me like a child lost in a fairy tale,

A dream from which I’d never wake,

Or like golden sand, slipping, vanishing between my fingers.

She represents all heroines of romance to me,

Like Sibyl did to Dorian;

Desdemona, Ophelia, Juliet, and Imogen.

Except they are fiction,

And she is not.

But then again, she might as well be fiction,

Because I can never have her.

I know that she’ll always be my unfulfilled wish upon a wishing well,

But I’m also aware that I’ll wish for her in every life.

Why would she ever want me?

What would she even see?

A grown man drowning in his boyish fantasies, and nothing more.

She’ll never peep into my heart and see

the depth of my emotions;

My willingness for her shall forever remain ignored,

And my admiration and respect oblivious to her.

O Lord!

Be merciful and let your grace be upon me.

Remove me from this agony,

And ease my suffering.

For I can take it no more—

This torment—my greatest wish just out of reach—feels unbearable.

Oh, for what past sins are you making me atone in such a way?

My heart is weighed down by my never-ending desires,

My mind heavy with unspoken words.

Let the end come to me!

Yamaraj, the Grim Reaper, Death,

I call upon you!

Take me with you,

For I am ready.

But before my ruin, my demise,

Before my Reichenbach Fall,

Let me know her name.

That remains my one, last wish.

For when I plunge to my death,

I want my last words to be her name upon my lips.

I’ll utter those words that hold such dear meaning to me

until I can’t anymore.

I shall eternally be grateful to you, dear God,

For letting me feel such immense passion for someone as wonderful as her.

Thank you, dear God. Now, I surrender to Death’s gentle arms,

To be lulled to an eternal sleep, her name forever engraved upon my lips.

By Shambhavi Singh