The heart cannot stop,
It roams and every drop
Is desired to be drank
From its majestic bonding.
A soothsayer’s shadowy wings
Consoles this doomed
Marvel of heart,
A broken well
Still serves you best.
The water is sweet
By the nightingale’s tune.
The shire is a residing garden.
Young Hobbits are their own
Master.
The ringing and mingling of hearts Invite an army of dawn
To win the conquest
Over dusk.
What survives is a grave
Where love flowers.
The possession of the love ring
Drives one astray
To the beloved’s heart.
The winner of hearts
Becomes the lord of the rings.
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© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor
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