Shakespeare, Keep Us Not In The Dark

Shakespeare, keep us not in the dark, Say it, who your dark lady, The lady love whom Describe you secretly and stealthily as the love of your poetry? You may say that your mistress’s eyes are not like the sun, The cheeks not rosy, Lips not pink or coral-like, But I will. The eyes of my mistress dark and beautiful, lovely and deep That see I, go I seeing on, The lips of my darling pink and coloured As if some painter had painted them. The smiles of hers in paints and sketches, Smiles figuring upon and deleting as impressions, The braid of hair which hangs up to the waist level Full of jasmines stuck into And the stars studded into and twinkling, The face of hers the moon-face And sandalwood paste embroidered And a bindi on the forehead. I do not know who the girl, A painter’s imagination or a poet’s dream, A singer’s love-song Or a replica of a nautch girl on the temple-pillar. You may call her Rosy, Daisy, Bobby, But she for me is My Chandramukhi, Suryamukhi, My Champa-Chameli. Shakespeare, say you, who the dark lady is, Keep not the critics guessing, Spending so much on seminars, If not, let me call in the Scotland Yard detectives With Alsatian dogs will they come, searching you, Searching me the complainant, Say you, reveal it Otherwise both of us will be in trouble.