At the end of my labour <br />A familiar voice consoles me in intimate whispers: <br />Don't worry, honey, you haven't erred <br />In this public celebration of our love. <br />The great monuments to love like the Taj Mahal, <br />Transformed private emotions into social ritual. <br />No grand passion can be contained <br />Within secret diaries or letters <br />But must spill out sooner or later into the open. <br />Love, like money, must be shared, <br />Not hoarded: so it can multiply. <br />To broadcast love, therefore, is no crime. <br />But beware of making it an act <br />A stunt to gain cheap publicity or praise.... <br />Before she admonishes me further, <br />I stop her mouth with half a dozen kisses. <br />The rest of her warnings <br />Become silly mumblings inside my head. <br />But now I'd better make a quick getaway <br />Before I am hooted out by my audience, <br />And though not vain enough to think (like John Donne) <br />That our love can serve as an example, <br />Let me just say, dear reader, that if someone loves you, <br />Be they fair or plain, don't let go of them: <br />You won't get such chances again and again. <br />But if for some reason you cannot reciprocate, <br />Treat them gently, release them with tenderness, <br />Remembering Bulleh Shah's wise pronouncement: <br />Break a temple or a mosque, <br />But don't break a heart full of love. <br />For, as the good book saith, the greatest of all is Love. <br /> <br />[From The Serene Flame]<br /><br />Makarand Paranjape<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/epilogue-as-an-old-fashioned-homily/
