To La Scapigliata

​When there are times, I could not even kiss

This frail self of mine, or could not breathe

In lonely air, and down to an uncertain abyss

Sink — to leave my poetic garners to bequeath;

In such times, I wander into nature’s play

That I may never look at my ill fate anymore,

Or fear death — the maiden of an uncertain day,

Or loathe the bygone past, or a future to care for.

And in quiet bowers, slumber with a numbing pain,

Pining for the soft pillow of some selfless love —

Like my mother’s, the goddess of all goddesses, yet without a fane,

Or like the dreamy coming of my beloved — heaven’s dove.

Or like La Scapigliata — all womanhood, who, through half-closed eyes

Enlightens hearts, as to darkened ways do the starry skies.

Shubham Thakur is an Indian computer science student, philosophy enthusiast, writer, and artist. His works are deeply influenced by the Romantic tradition. He aspires to become a polymath.