I have heard of lofty praises for love
Love as eternity, love as nurturer of dreams
Ask me and I would tell you what love is,
Love is like the sting of a honey bee
All powerful for a moment, pain jabbing your heart
The next moment, eternity gets replaced by fraility.
Ask a honey bee, why does it end it's life by leaving it's sting while it could have other means.
You would find a helpless sigh escape your lips
For aren't you exactly like a honey bee?
The moment you see your love tumbling, you leave your sting
A sting enough to rip your love apart
A sting enough to jab your heart
A sting, a sting enough to kill you ounce by ounce
One moment you die, the other moment you live
And sing humming songs of despair
You drink despair, you breathe despair
Hail! Honey bee love.
"Read between the lines", I heard our professor say. We were in midst of a Victorian text. I looked at her point blank. She had spoken about something which I had no clue about. "Ma'am, would you please elaborate? ", I tried framing this sentence in my mind but my introverted self overpowered my inquisitive soul like everytime. I hopelessly waited for an explanation. Ma'am started explaining about how beyond the surface meaning of any written text, there lay a wide plethora of meaning which wasn't explicitly stated. She talked about finding a void between the written words and our imagination, that void which shapes our interpretation. That explanation opened doors to my perception of reading a text. It wasn't that I had never considered about the possibilities of meanings that lay coated in words until then, but, what perhaps I lacked was to look for that void where I questioned the layers of meaning, where I put myself in those layers of wo...
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