To my Valentine dear

Real love

Love is---

Beyond the glitter

Of the yellow metal,

Advertised furiously,

On TV/print space,

Or,

 The diamonds that

Gleam under the soft lights

Installed by the clever jewelers

To entice via messages of love;

Love is not thus commodified,

Rather it is---

Reaching out to the silent other,

Crying out silently along

With her, on moonless nights,

When bitter winds roar

On deserted streets and ruined homes,

It is sharing anguish felt like a cruel stab,

When she suddenly remembers a

Recently-deceased mother,

In far-away home that was

Left years ago,

When she was a mere teen;

She chokes, tone thick,

A grieving daughter remembers, while

Others mostly have channelized or

Erased her;

It is, love, my dear, ---

Opening of the secured heavy doors,

Before your Valentine even rings the bell;

Talking to her, quietly by her side,

Busy in the humid Asian kitchen,

Preparing the hot dinner;

And, gazing lovingly,

Again,

At her tired oval face,

With long fluttering,

Black eye-lashes,

That tenderly cover a pair,

Of pure almond-eyes,

Reminding you of the young doe,

Trapped in an urban jungle,

Full of ugly predators,

Masked as friends and co-workers,

It is gently caressing her prostrate,

Worn-down body,

Like a tender mother,

When she is asleep,

And roaming in a

Free, equal,

Different world,

Where she ceases

To be, for an instant,

In a strange dream,

No unpaid

Unacknowledged

Constant care-giver

To a demanding, forgetful family.