People talk of their strengths

       as for me,  my weaknesses I study

       life is a sharp ascent to better-hood

       what in future would I be?

Colours of autumn
speak of deep melancholy
of fragile beauty

What I am or not
none need to know--
in the public eye
I've nothing to show-

alone I live in some unknown fringe
where none would ever want to go
silence is ever my unfailing friend
by night the gentle stars for me they solely glow

Such gems to treasure   
    old books in unknown alleys   
    each carries a tale

“moonlight and mist caught in [woods] like lamb’s wool on bushes in a pasture.”
— Elizabeth Bishop, from “The Moose,” Geography III (Noonday Press, 1988)
Edinburgh, Scotland


Sweet melancholy
autumn mist and pale moonlight
gentle stream murmurs

My happiness
will spring like
a newborn flower
reaching out to the light
if you will love me
for what I am
all other things
set aside-

my heart knows
love is not my right
only that such
I deserve
and keep it bright
until the end of time
without the tiniest blight-

I stop, I don't know why
suddenly my words fail
and fall into the labyrinth
of my heart's twilight--

I'm sinking
I'm fading
like a flower
in withering
yet, there's
such sweetness
in my longing to die
for this burning love
I can't ever deny.

This is my reply:
            
            The waiting is the beauty
            the bud awaits for its blooming
     the love of my dream will come to me
          on that glorious shining morning