A Piece of Me

By Brinda Mitra

What do you want from me, curious soul? 

I have not much to offer. 

I cannot give you roses as pink as the blush of your cheeks, 

Or lilies as pure as the words you speak. 

I cannot give you the blue of the skies, or the green of trees; 

The sweet melody of nightingales, the gentle breeze. 

What do you want, oh curious soul? 

Do you want beauty or wisdom, love or a companion, 

As unassuming as a child in play? 

Do you want the morning sun, or the stars of the night? 

Blazing fire, or hands of ice? 

Daunting morals, virtue or vice? 

I have not much to give you, my friend. 

And I know not whether you would want, 

The things I have, the things I can. 

I can give you misty mountains, fallen leaves; 

Old towns and cobbled streets; 

Forests full of secrets and mysteries… 

I can give you overcast skies and storms galore, 

Brown books and forgotten lore, 

The mermaid of the sea, the nymph of the woods, 

And wandering spirits on dusty roads. 

I can give you the white blanket of December, 

Ashen hearth and crackling embers, 

Howling wolves on a full-moon night, 

A pack and a lone, engaged in strife. 

I can give you the tears my eyes hold back. 

I can give you the anger that burns in my heart. 

And when the day treats me kindly enough, 

Maybe I can spare an honest smile, 

Though tired by time and tide. 

That is all I can offer you, my friend. 

Tell me if you ever want any of that. 

Also let me know if you don’t. 

I only ask that your strong hands be 

Gentle when they hold a piece of me.

By Brinda Mitra