A blank page, listens in silence,
At this midnight hour, before me.
What fire burns in me, to merge,
Unwritten ellipses of memory-
The promises your eyes gave
A shade of violet, modest and humble,
Terse in speech, polished in style;
A rare specimen of delicious wine,
From choicest fruits with perfect taste;
So rare a being shines behind the words,
Graceful, intoxicating, beckoning for more
Words that mirror unspoken thoughts,
Known realms and a kinship of wavelength.
It's been years since I started writing. But even now, when I sit down to write, I feel like a schoolboy sitting in the examination hall before an empty page. In my younger days, writing was a hobby. Now, it's a struggle; a prayer to bring about words in the most satisfactory order; an exorcism of memories.(Free Translation) MT VASUDEVAN NAIR
Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts. There is symbolic as well as actual beauty in the migration of birds, the ebb and flow of the tides, the folded bud ready for spring. There is something infinitely healing in the repeated refrains of nature- the assurance that dawn comes after night, and spring after the winter.
My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods: time will change it, I'm well aware, as winter changes the trees. My love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I am Heathcliff! He's always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don't talk of our separation again: it is impracticable.
We have celebrated our days of togetherness as if each day was a special occasion, gone on adventures in the city, explored new nooks and co...