Rabindranath Tagore

The Kiss

Lips’ language to lips’ ears. Two drinking each other’s heart, it seems. Two roving loves who have left home, pilgrims to the confluence of lips. Two waves rise by the law of love to break and die on two sets of lips. Two wild desires craving each other meet at last at the body’s limits. Love’s writing a song in dainty letters, layers of kiss—calligraphy on lips. Plucking flowers from two sets of lips perhaps to thread them into a chain later. This sweet union of lips is the red marriage—bed of a pair of smiles.