O, clement thoughts those settle in my world of loneliness,
And bloom mild passionate colors of lenient sadness;
Your  apathetic thorns of pitiful innocent accusation
Poke my painful bleeding wounds of frustration,  
And engulf my gasping humanity in wild ruination,
While I still stand a dim deeming bough in wilderness
Of my human quake, of my blameful fall into futile awareness,
And dream like a man, and think as pious flawless creation,
Of paltry wisdom that's immured in insignificant desolation;
Here all alone carrying my eternal agony into calm distress,
Which anneals my burdens and darkens my insipid egress,
while lost elation strolls beyond my depressed horizon,
and is granted for all, I think, and all think I'm beyond their isolation.
thus the weal of weary ignorance is concealed in vigilant blindness.

My beloved, the desert sand and I are alike
Prostrating and burning since our painful birth,
Where from we rippled through a roving death,
While love shades our existence at bask

We drink the sun a fake water light,
And thirsty freedom creeps to mirage's bound,
And pride moans with a cry of squalls' sound,    
While love cuddles our thoughts close and tight.

My beloved, the desert sand and I are ineligible,
Drifted and assaulted and broken up into  particles,
And carried away on echoes of discordant canticles,
Where love remains truthful for the negligible.

My beloved, the desert and I are a color of a mould
Deliberately chosen to adorn beauty and free fingers
For those who wish, the meek sweet strangers
Are melted to keep true love audacious and bold.

Picked coy roses never drop despair tears;
Even, her a gentle passion seek to extinguish
Doubting not her powers to bless dreams,
That long lived hearts trust not, yet cherish;
What strength brings the weak rose a blight
Than a virtuous pleasure with a reckless hand,
And souls of Men kindled with beauty light,
And heart, breath and world of love in mind,
I think ways of pleasure in men decline,
Therefore no roses, no flowers will decay,
When light of my heart shines to be thine,
Where thy beauty glow with them and stay,
That my spirit’s weakness regrets not a crime,
And my hands caress the buds of love time.

My wishes are dreary and cold
Time, in rush, under the sun is sweating,
And summer sears stories can’t be told,
The heart by itself is obliged to live beating,
In cadence with love words of a song,
Which a pretty girl sang so long, so long.
I sighed, then, and sympathized with her pain,
Later, to recollect those words, I tried in vain.
Her eyes were intense black, sad and wet.
Where starless winter night wove his web,
A desire rose , then in my solitude, I wept.
At that moment I loved, yet couldn’t speak;
Now she is a misty shade at its lowest ebb,
My fondness remains, upon my chest creeps.
Salty rain drops, in the eye, trickle down the cheek.
   While the heart, with nettling remorse, weeps.

Bring me back to my stream of delight
To build my brittle weir against the flood of blight;
Lingered in time just before your first sight,
Beyond thy perfume, beyond thy old beauty,
When colours, on branches, danced vivid and bright.
To the verge of thy glimpse poking my heart,
Before thy smile could settle, then peacefully migrate.
I beseech you to stay at that distance and wait.
Stay at that distance and wait- in haste.
Till I close eyes on the relics of my guardian gate,
Till I relive thy delicate presence and tolerate.
Till mirrors echo thy serene pale light.
Till I fold my weird tales of glory,
Only then pass through my soul Mary.

Haggard and perturbed by thy love,
why such price to be paid
may be penalised, may not is a threat
I kept silent, kept the promise we made
I have seen nobody, not even a single maid.
In a warm and lovely summer night,
I strolled moping, so late
Then wrote lines of our tale,
I winked at a blue star, I didn't rave
The glinting star witnesses, I was afraid,
The story which only the moon read excerpt,
And the craved passing comet heard extract,
Maybe! the news travelled are not so exact
I told a lonely sad violet, that lives near a cave
By the lake, she is sincere to me and great,
By coincidence, the owl heard,
And gleefully told the honest nightingales,
So mice rushed into each house with tales
By the morning, our love was sung by girls;
thy sister played possum parrying what's so near;
Thy father, mowing the lawn, didn't hear
But if thy mother noticed,
Justified would be thy fear.