It's a rose-garden of cries and pain here,
Yet for roses to bloom you need rain here.

The songs of sadness and madness are too weak,
Compared to this feeling they're too sane here.

Beauty lies in eyes of the beholder,
So this may be gold or an ink-stain here.

Thank God for poetry! There are no rules.
Write this in prose, and you'll be insane here!

O Mâhî this sad-talk is not the way;
Count blessings, there's no time to complain here!