Only 19 I was when I met you;
That fateful day in spring;
When brother Andre unknowingly;
Seized my heart from me and gave you.
That day I lost all that was dear-
My sanity, my pride, my family
And most of all myself.
Yes, I lost myself to you.
Shy, petite, obedient, I was.
You charmed me by your darkness.
Your handsome face was my mirror;
And you were my God.
Ill-reputed you were;
They named you a lothario,
A womanizer, a vagabond,
The moody prince of Paris.
Yet I ignored all;
I heard not the pleas of my loved ones.
They cried out-
Dear Jeannette, to your doom you go.
I, who was in love;
Heard not the cries of sanity.
Followed my childish heart,
And came to you faithfully.
Promises you made me;
Said you’d give me your name,
Your love, yourself.
Dear Modi, where did they go?
When my Jeanne was born,
All she had was an unknown father.
An artist living in denial of the world.
Yet I loved you despite all.
Sat through all your dark moods;
All your whimsical acts I bore;
All your violent rages I took to my skin.
Yes I loved you.
I was your ‘jeannette’,
Your wife, your muse.
Despite all, possess you I could not.
After all you were the artist and I your muse.
When all friends deserted you,
I was there was I not?
When the world spit on you,
You found comfort in the warmth of my bosom did you not?
Oh my Modi, my sweet love,
The web of sensual darkness
That you wove around me was now my home,
My reason to live.
And when you left this cruel world,
I left with you.
I was yours till my last moments.
Your unacknowledged wife,