Sixteen
For his sixteenth year,
I would like to jot down our short far-fetched novel;
In my reviled existence, you first dished up an exquisite chow;
In spite of my tiresome seconds in life, you still discharge your heroic duty;
Dredge up our third year; oh! You bestowed upon me roses without thorns;
Despite my ghastly life preference, you still choose to love me back and forth;
On the fifth stanza, you wanted me to disclose my version of 'How do I love thee';
I haven't done it 'til I reach sixth for quixotically, I have a mere logical reason;
Oh Seven, why I couldn't give you a stanza? You definitely owe my whole poetry;
Clock strikes at eight, wearing your tuxedo you plead for a romantic date;
If I were a game of card, you told me you prefer 'lucky nine', I am your fluky nine;
I'll never forget the tent you have lent when I was stricken by a massive tornado;
While gazing upon stars, you softly murmured that I am your eleven: eleven;
During the masquerade at 12th, I turned out to be your whimsical Cinderella;
Wonder why I happened to be the luckiest during Friday the 13th? I am with you;
Fourteen is always my favorite number; it austerely reminds me of you;
We were just fifteen when our hearts enchantingly attached each other's veins;
Finally your awaited seventeenth year arrived, yet you wish for a hallowed thing...
As you grow older, you said you realized that love isn't genuinely for us,
T'was the moment your blissful birthday surprisingly became our last day.
YOU ARE READING
Hüzün (Poetry)
PoetryHüzün (n.) -a melancholy resulting from inadequacy or failure and weighting so heavily that it becomes a communal, resigned, and even curiously poetic.
