Why is it that the heart does pine?
For something that cannot be mine,
Like a dog that chases a shining car,
Instead of just admiring it from afar.
Why is it that the heart does ponder?
If distance indeed makes it grow fonder,
Of something that was once within the reach,
And put a smile on the faces of each.
Why is it that the heart does feel
The need for a moment to steal,
And store away in an inner recess,
Deep within where no one can guess.
For the heart will do what it is meant to do,
It does not for an instant rue,
That it like the monsoon wind blows,
To a place where the mind never goes.
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