A poem that breathes

Jigme Palzom Bhutia

As the clock stroke midnight,
The world stopped, started to blur;
In the pale of the moonlight
A voice itself a song, start'd to murmur;
A lost horizon of stars
Unravelling through his eyes,
His hidden, brave scars
Glistened like fireflies;
The magic in his soul-
Embrac'd, unmatch'd- loved by me
His beauty as a whole-
Form, vaster than the seas;
For him, a garland of praises
With tender hands I'd wreathe;
Out of the many countless faces,
He be my only poem that breathes;