She waits. And waits. Will he come this evening? What if he doesn’t come? What will I do? How will I bear more waiting?
But wait a minute, what if he actually comes? Is the garland ready? Is the lamp lit? Am I ready? Even worse, will I recognize him?
And so it goes. Every evening, every night. New morning, same old waiting. Old love, a new kind of waiting.
She waits. And waits.
The song I came to sing
remains unsung to this day.
I have spent my days in stringing
and in unstringing my instrument.
The time has not come true,
the words have not been rightly set;
only there is the agony
of wishing in my heart…..
I have not seen his face,
nor have I listened to his voice;
only I have heard his gentle footsteps
from the road before my house…..
But the lamp has not been lit
and I cannot ask him into my house;
I live in the hope of meeting with him;
but this meeting is not yet.
Linking this with Everyday Gyaan – Anything Goes on Sunday-2