October 21, 2017 ·

My love is like a jasmine flower,
Dancing in darkness and light
Shaking the fragrance of passion.
In company, with summer
She fondles sweet dreams
Collecting them roses,
Giving them butterfly kisses

My love sleeps in a magical bed,
Woven by blue sky,
Adorned with moons and stars,
And colors of hot rumor,
All hugs her every night,
Collecting her dreams’ smiles,
And desire,
And plant them in my heart,
Roses of chastity,
Taking me with such a bliss
To the land of freedom and light.

He grew up lonely with his soundless shadow,
Like a star, in the middle of a far vast meadow,
A low light twinkled from his shack’s window
To tell about his sullen solemn presence,
All night, he slept, but the light remained a reference,
A deliberate language to declare his presence,
A spirit of a person in a far-off existence.
Wreathed not with the joy of a guest’s sight
Enduring his motionless future fairly light.

A roving girl saw him once, once no more,
Yet still imagined his scene every morn and night
Tempted by affection and pacified by her right,
Unexpectedly, she knocked at his ancient door,
Then left leaving a red rose on the blackened floor,
While he was in bed before the rise of an earthly sound,
‘Thank you, lover,’ cried he for the rose he found,
Then ate the petals sitting on the cold ground,
He was forever amused by their slight bitterness,
To wilt in a vase, to him, was of bitterest sadness,

Full of life, every morning, he ate an acrid flower,
On the door, he fixed a note welcoming the stranger,
whispering to himself,’ The note is much better.’
Watching all night was a desire, even more than love,
spending most of the night outdoors in cold weather,
Until the day he didn’t find his passion’s motive,
He yielded to his old life, yet so eager to live
excusing her every morning for her realistic decision after all,
He never knew what people in town did say,
About the death of a girl in pursuit of a rose,
In a wild land, she fell and fell and never rose,
For him, he regretted eating the roses, petals and soul.

I become a tree at noon, a great tree,
My sweat drips resin with myrrh scent,
As all trees in love, with grades,
Whenever she stands north to me,
Seeking carelessly for shades.

I have waited her for so long,
She promised to call here one day,
And my passion enjoyed the waiting play.
I never suspected I’m doing wrong.
In my heart, she shall forever live,
On my hopes, love shall ever thrive;
Her pleasant eyes shall keep me strong,
Wise and with enough stored passion,
Strayed not by time or paled ambition,
I shall meet her where she left,
Wavering between dreams and reality,
I shall touch the waves on her hair,
And kiss her lips as we kissed there,
And rejoice the greatest love’s gift.
O, sweetest promise on paths of ignorance,
Time preens itself in ever spring and glows
With colours of every weather’s ardent rose.
Eating my smiles, my life, and a voiceless chance,
I passed, before a mirror I see my ghost,
A withering figure on that path, gray and lost,
Time ruled, but my love story is the same,
Remains of a lover bides with the same old name.

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.

Settle in my heart, swoon with my soul
In a human delight, human after all,
Where beauty blooms without bounds
Where flowers dance with no sounds
In a living soft drum, red, red-red;
Beats resonate a rhythm never been heard
With a flow of passion migrates red, red-red.
O, this floods of regular love rhythm,
It counts my sighs in cadence with them,
When you packed memories, body and will,
And departed countries late that evening,
And returned with angels in a dew cell,
On a harvest day, early one dear morning
With songs of birds on kindled wings,
Invisible heavenly bliss, joyfully swings
In meadows cradle that seems still,
A bliss has chosen my heart to dwell,
A human heart, a will with machine skill,
That lives, loves and imitates a drowned bell.

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.

You and me ourselves both are here,
A man and a woman growing together,
I mean not hand in hand nor sufficiently near,
Nor in a hurry, seeking perfumes of the earth,
Nor surrendered to consume our freedom at birth,
But, in a manner, here absolutely we may stay,
Spending waves of breath in a meaningful way,
Going elsewhere shall mean we appear there,
We may inhale happiness and rough among care,
Without the directions, we suggested to each other,
You are trusty and me, an ancient term lover,
Man and woman satisfied by their own delight,
In our usual performances at a slow night,
Keeping perfect company without much argument,
What you promised and I did too show commitment,
Honest to each as long we don’t go to a crowded place,
Where every morning with clothes, we wear an odd face,
Where ritual love and our humanity are threatened,
Nor decide to cross the angry brown river to the bay,
Where we are, by the noise of defeated waves, deafened,
Where the smell of salty sea corrupts your scent,
And your love whisper becomes no more than a lament.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Once upon our love, do you remember?
How your beauty startled from seraphic calm,
When I caught sight of years on your soft wrinkled palm,
Which enfolded the betrayal of the careless time,
And we were ashamed to show our suffused temper,
While our eyes patiently contended with time's innocent harm.

Do you still ponder about my valor and rosy promises?
Of baskets of flowers of jealous daffodils and irises,
Of a palace of our iris of love's gracious glances,
Of paths of iridescent delight to our passion's wilderness,
Of a world of stars and sun beams for your dresses,
And stories for our grandsons adorned with before sleep kisses.

Do you remember, ah, our mingled tears?
Our failure to laugh, to count bleak years,
Our persistent endeavors to survive hopefully in vain:
Love is not ours, I wish we were spared of this searing pain,
Might what time have disclosed be folded again,
Might what we have lived be faded in wane.

She lives in my house,
As if it wasn’t my house,
And it became her dearest house.
She occupies my favorite side of bed,
And reads the book I haven’t yet read,
However, I like what I lose,
And the odor of what I feel,
When into my mirror she stares,
And wears the towel I use,
Or walks in the room without a skirt,
wearing my only white silk shirt,
And tells me about her nightmares;
When she persuades me to listen
And believe her voyage to heaven,
Which was so many and many years ago,
In agony, the truth I surly know,
but her presence can’t be unreal,
So happy with the soul of the dead,
Illuminating life in the solitary house.

Hatred, for those who seek for reason,
Is a fertile ground to exonerate treason.
And enmity breeds in blind terrorism  
In seasons of adorable ignorance of heroism,  
And shallow knowledge is marked by arrogance
Pleased to exude its own furious fragrance,  
Sheathed in cloaks of words of slick elegance,
And intrigue perfumes conspiracy with innocence,
Which serves man's aberration in a dull perception,
Where sublime paths are righteous deception,
And antipathy lapidates resurrection of truth,
And affliction is doomed shelter for ruth,
For broken hearts, the haunted and guests,
And lovers and tragic faces and ***** *******,
And the aged wisdom and the unseen future,
And we, the abandoned in particular.

I shall always remember,
the white rose,
In the barren croft,
Where I was designed to sit
On a stone, grey, mossy and soft.
I never rose,
As long as I can recollect,
Untroubled,
Untroubling,
Forsaken to watch it,
White beauty with pride,
Resting for a while,
High above the mirthful green tide;
Vigil beauty in royal style,
Before starting to wither,
This peaceful flower,
Each spring season,
For decades, taught me without reason,
To feel, live and die,
O, that power will never be mine,
Though I can’t weep or cry,
None could tell a tear was it or dew?
On the cheek of me, the statue.

The word, the same word you often whisper,
Takes me where sweet dreams murmur,
Analyzed all in the heart, I eagerly listen,
And thoughts of pleasant days never lessen,
And pulses of warm sighs in mind glisten,
Swifter than passionate stormy guesses,
Haunted by the joy the heart never misses,
I think of you, my tender heart and mind,
My love and friend and best my soul can find.
I have, at a gentle time, your beauty received,
Brave and charmed, my soul adored you,
In every temper following your fragrance clue,
To each born hour, wherever I can view
Your beauty aging, passing years on bare feet,
No other sight can ever have more delightful beat,
In my chest, throbs of kindled sensation on fire,
Unchanging ardor mingles with your own desire.

Fickle bodies to love fidelity meanings are few,
So let's part, you and me, before we argue,
While the angry summer day still has sight;
Before the spellbinding shawl of twilight
Deceives eyes with green mantle shapes.
Let's us go now before dark steals our shades,
To clothe them to bushes in euphoric dance,
So fears manipulate feelings of double chance;
Though both of them are in trance of innocence,
Yet fragile feelings have a weak defense.
See, fantasy speaks shallow with farcical glare,
While love fathoms beneath a calm stare,
So verve hearts are deluded by ill scheme,
That ruthlessly fakes snares to overwhelm
The paired inept perplexed couples in love,
With distracting concepts of secrets above
Their ability to discern and knowledge tact,
That we take peaceful plants for severe plight,
So let's part, sweetheart, till we are not huffy
Till we understand love and have more liberty.

So fair to trace fervent swallows' treat
When summer's warmth of northern retreat
Starts to desert heat to southern east
Luring a febrile fever for migratory feast
Swallows' flocks disappear with bereft heartbeats
For the fledglings are abandoned in alders' nests
Yet before long, their parents, the young shall meet
Following the elders path of flight by mere instinct
Which is a banal puzzle, yet truly deserves inspect
A mystery of innocent creatures without deceit
Is impetus to discern the secrets of love effect
Thus united hearts shall ever bounding ties reflect
While the bare soul of love roams with decent feat
Wherever its bounteous eyes stare, spaces retreat
For with the soul of love is anointed the lord's feet
And the union of holy sweat with love shall greet
the pure glorified love that knows no defeat.

Thus began the story
Of a heart carved in memory
Waiting in a public garden,
A scar awfully etched,
A settlement of love bargain.
Adored and chanted honestly,
sculpted into depth faithfully,  
Then repudiated,  
Expected not to be waiting,
More likely to be wilting,
Shunning the mercy of heaven,
Depleting love creativity,
Debilitated by fake Solemnity,  
Cohabiting with ancient silence,
A blackened dead evidence,
A word on a bough or a dull stone
No one knows when
That in love memory was born
With  engraved  letters
Everywhere, On  its skin
Beyond its   own ken,
And was left in fetters,
Enslaved
For negligence and history.

He grew up lonely with his soundless shadow,
Like a star, in the middle of a far vast meadow,
A low light twinkled from his shack’s window
To tell about his sullen solemn presence,
All night, he slept, but the light remained a reference,
A deliberate language to declare his presence,
A spirit of a person in a far-off existence.
Wreathed not with the joy of a guest’s sight
Enduring his motionless future fairly light.

A roving girl saw him once, once no more,
Yet still imagined his scene every morn and night
Tempted by affection and pacified by her right,
Unexpectedly, she knocked at his ancient door,
Then left leaving a red rose on the blackened floor,
While he was in bed before the rise of an earthly sound,
‘Thank you, lover,’ cried he for the rose he found,
Then ate the petals sitting on the cold ground,
He was forever amused by their slight bitterness,
To wilt in a vase, to him, was of bitterest sadness,

Full of life, every morning, he ate an acrid flower,
On the door, he fixed a note welcoming the stranger,
whispering to himself,’ The note is much better.’
Watching all night was a desire, even more than love,
spending most of the night outdoors in cold weather,
Until the day, he didn’t find his passion's motive,
He yielded to his old life, yet so eager to live
excusing her every morning for her realistic decision after all,
He never knew what people in town did say,
About the death of a girl in pursuit of a rose,
In a wildland, she fell and fell and never rose,
For him, he regretted eating the roses, petals and soul.

Spare me these love powers,
Thy covert  torture,
In discreet shelters,
Wait no more,
I can’t walk nor run,
To ingratiate myself as before,
My child in company,
Is having fun,
Round and round the sun
Or is it his shadow?
Lingering, out of breath,
Like the before to be mown meadow,
Lushly, leaning to the morning breeze,
Swaying with a subtle motive,
A plenty of desire to live,
Before death,

Where art thou child?
So delicate and mild,
Lost among flowers
So bright and wild,
Yellow, pink and red,
Splinters of your bed,
Laughter and gestures,
Have I lost my sight?
Or art the eyes deceived by light?
We shall not return tonight;
Memories  of the dead or the Blind,
That is insinuating visions for a widow,
who is waiting the true return
Of her old man and toddler.

Silence captured words in your cold eyes,
And passion snuggled to last feeble ties,
And optimism clung to a heart about to die.
O, patience allow me time for a loyal lie.
O, my sweet soul; look at me once more.
Look at me tenderly in peace as before.

Then lie where thou once walked following the turtle to the plain,
While I was watching you waving in the warm rain.
The meadow loved the way you followed the tortoise to the field,
And I loved thy roaming about when it disappeared,
While thou laughed ,and chuckled the green reed,
Then you withdrew your hands and head into thy shell coat,
And lively danced in the pasture of wild oat.

O, my love, the canon was quieted for unpredictable reason,
And the rifles breathed a last fatal treason,
Which bloomed with red flowers on thy warm chest,
See, in the place, thy spring's beauty shone upon the rest;
Me, the anemones, the damp rocks and the merciful death,
And seized my soul and obliterated our life's myth.

I hear you,
At times of silence,
Whispering in my world
And echoes murmur
Deep in my chest
Before they rest.
Evidence,
Of your presence
Strums my vocal cords
Sweet words,
A heritage
Of our love age
And nothing more
Than your shadow
At the door,
Dancing,
Singing,
A song we loved,
Sang, dreamed and slept.
Now alone to be left,
You are dead,
I didn't expect,
Had it happened?
Before we kissed,
Had I imagined?
Or had it been your scent!?

I live for you, a feeble flame,
You live for me, a yellow dim light;
I flare dancing on a wax thread,
While you travel straight ahead;
A free light around my warm flame,
As far as the darkness boundaries allow,
As we were decades before, we are now;
I melt and carelessly burn my years,
And trickle down with my hot tears,
Waiting for you to illuminate my world,
Which is dark, which is bitterly cold
To be immersed with our quiet love scene,
Which can be noticed, which can be seen,
But when dawn breaks bright.
And my flame is blown out;
The life we have lived so tight
Becomes a candle's illusion by name,
And a fancy of desire, which has right.

O, baby, love has adopted pain,
A bitterness mingled with hazy desire
For a sweetness of hard language to learn.
Behold, with such a regret wood shares fire,
And with a conspiracy of both, heat grades
High or low, then turns ashes and fades,
What time allows, they wouldn't last long
As the wane roses rush to be a trifle straw,
That have accomplished her duty to prove,
What magnificence is to display her gratitude
For a crude phenomenon with sacred attitude,
Which destroys their beauty for the sake of love.
So we shall witness the vanish of the glow,
Of what seemed extremely warm and strong,
Of the semblance that deceives who know,
See how many wisdoms have been proved wrong,
But I hope my hypothesis is a silly dress;
A suit of my languished soul in progress.

I love her,
Even with excessive make up,
She loves dyeing her face and hair,
She adores me, but
She frequently forgets my name,
Even it is always the same,
While In every colour,
Her face and body appear,  
I constantly identify her,
Whatever,
Her face and hair
Do violently change,
Her identical rage,
In very attractive body cage;
Only once I thought,
She was my coffee
In the golden cup.

Her lust is a mixture of desire and fright.
She declared to them all that night.
“I'm ready to sell my body and soul."
My savoir is not what she is used to be today;
She became a creature of blood and clay.
The star that guided her through her pilgrimage
Is falling as twinkling swords
Sending pulses which is more than words,
Telling the divine beauty to stand for the fight.
Now she can't realize the significance
of her eternal beauty.
The toiled body wants to retreat,
While I'm as a candle in a deserted room seat
Drawing my dreams of salvation
on walls, windows and utilities of ritual feast
I can see myself in my tranquility as a dim
weeping, Dancing light between darkness and creativity,
or a burning mild struggling sight
That illuminates her paths to me
would the one who ignored the star’s guidance
be able to take by the candle's feat.

Love lights the truth of a hopeful perhaps
To a despaired old dream guides all laps,
And mind descends to a heart drawing elate maps,
And at ease irritated fingers rest upon laps.
Women know the use of coolness, hideous trap,
In shadow of an angel sleepless lover,
In teeth of arguing tempest with silence cover,
Preparing unsightly spell  in red flower,
Which, of course, to be mentioned, is the best manner,
For a romance, nothing utters more charmer,
To be praised with a kiss or obvious never,
So love predicts paradise of a sacrificed perhaps,
Thus blazed hearts, whatsoever, please their master

That night, knowing she loves butterflies;
He promised her a visit in fairy disguise,
In doubt that he might, she bought,
Knowing he adores, a sample boat;
Yet she never believed in his fairytale
In the morning, she caught a rare butterfly,
And pinned it onto the white plastic sail,
Then she began to cry, annoyed by his lie.

O, love of the mighty power
By hatred, perpetually,
Thou art defeated,
Then thou cower
Naturally,
In thy cocooned safety,
humbly satiated,
Thou never strive
To divulge schemes to survive,
Or there none of them to try
Conversant with God's will
Thy secrets linger tacit and still
Yielding with wordless skill
Ready to die;
Evil which may satisfy,
Thou resurrect a comely butterfly

Love! Love! Great love’s incidence,
Plotted by one’s own fate coincidence,
Without roots of peerless confidence,
Sprouts buds that soothe wary hearts
The life of the sweetest song starts,
That delicious becomes the whisper,
Glances, silent lips and warm murmur,
The smiles, and every sudden gesture,
This time, that place in fall and winter,
Past, present and uncertain future,
All what love allows them to say,
Though between trust and doubt sway,
They believe promises their own way,
They are what they are, and remain,
Waiting in colors of passion to gain,
Their right of divine sweetness and pain
From the very time of unknown existence.

My love to you is ancient and old
See, we are living in an odd world
I have adored you at my earliest age
Long before I became strong and strange
Since I was my parents' heavenly gift
******* at my mother's holy breast
Guarding the other with a delicate fist
And my eyes of selfishness calmly fixed
Into hers that lovingly watched
Or when she touched my nose and kissed
When I clung on to her skirt
In streets of fears of common reality
So I weaned on love of your beauty
Then, I grew up, a man, I thought
I craved for you and desperately sought
Among all women, which was a mystery
Your eyes were in one, the hair on another
I see you in all women, so I wonder
Of a fact, here, of a blurred figure
Am I seeking for you in a feminine coat
Or for the tenderness of my mother?

In every day of my long days,
In every way of my few ways,
I ‘m supposed to figure out,
The untranslatable with no doubt
My destiny and puzzles of fate
Accumulating as they accumulate
Echoes of stares in solitude,
And joys in grieved mood,
And thoughts of my shade,
When in silence they fade,
On my feet estranged
Within my foolishness caged,
I warmly come and coldly go,
Ignorant of what I think I know,
A smile on my lips I draw,
Welcoming unfulfilled fears,
I still have, I know- not of years,
A pale face with sightless tears,
And stream of my confidence,
Despite my victorious pretence,
Fails behind my false face,
Lost among shadows of my race.

In every day of my long days,
In every way of my few ways,
I ‘m supposed to figure out,
The untranslatable with no doubt
My destiny and puzzles of fate
Accumulating as they accumulate
Echoes of stares in solitude,
And joys in grieved mood,
And thoughts of my shade,
When in silence they fade,
On my feet estranged
Within my foolishness caged,
I warmly come and coldly go,
Ignorant of what I think I know,
A smile on my lips I draw,
Welcoming unfulfilled fears,
I still have, I know- not of years,
A pale face with sightless tears,
And stream of my confidence,
Despite my victorious pretence,
Fails behind my false face,
Lost among  shadows of my race.

MY thoughts  undulate like not seas,
In depth sway lovely images at ease,
They come with shallow fancies without end,
And swing with shadows slowly increase,
Love crumbles under my lofty bed,
While foam of sin floats in my head,
Nakedness creeps up the wall without tongue,
And females ' ghosts –pretend to be young,
tapping and whispering at the door,
And in the mirror are installed even more,
And the smothered chimney breathes black hair,
While still in the stove dreamingly stare
At hot burning logs like legs,
And radiance of bright eyes lie down in fire,
Nothing can be more persistent than desire,
To tempt the soul to the world of sin,
But in my chamber reality does always win;
It seems I fancy ripe beauty in my misery,
To celebrate blossoms of haughty victory.

The life I miss, have ever missed,
My eyes eager to see, have never seen,
But plenty of tears have been always shed.
Not a beam of humanity has ever been sent
Years accumulated into age, have I really lived.
Ah, life, my dear years, I have certainly lost
How they passed, my youth eroded the most,
How I paled and sensed not amiss!
Vindicated by raw flawed sense,
And who sensed, surmised or guessed!
The grey hair or the spine that bent
Uninformed ambition has pretended talent,
Ah, my years, I call you, my dear, to tell
How the weary me tried ever to fulfill
One of my simple dreams, Have I dreamt?
A cry out of mute, I Have long been a dumb,
Declare the coming light, have been absent.

She came, a naked beauty without a name,
Searching a vessel of love's fragrance,
Though vessels are-if falsified- not the same,
Love's lure sails in silence and bore
Certainly each onto a different shore,
Like the one she searched to achieve her fate,
Of a heart that was burned by lights of lies,
Breathed blowing the sails into bed of paradise,
Swiftly to the dream, photographed in her eyes,
Yet like all dreams, each had awakening tale,
Her face could tell the thoughts that were hovering,
Blooming sweats of mute repentance,
O, old songs told about this harrowing experience,
Of shining mirage of love for centuries,
Of lore's vessels without conscience,
Haunting traveler's hearts with obscure innocence,
O, I perceived her wish, yet could not translate,
But colorless hints upon the tongue were quivering,
For her trip was done, and the daring heart was late.

The moon watches from far above,
In obscured space of loneliness,
Feels whispers, cries and sighs of love,
Among all miraculous creation;
And guide hearts that dwell in brightness,
For light is the language of the soul
Of the fair, the ugly, the unsatisfied and all
Can wait no longer  in separation;
Nothing can be right more than the moon at night,
For ages and further in subtle lightness,
Unchanged moves, unhesitating high above
Forests, valleys,  primitive beings and civilized,
Odor and spirit of light's grace,
So quietly passes gently with frowning face,
Or eye of merciful fate or heaven's breast,
Feeding the fancies of desire, east and west,
So famous, yet glimmers with sad shade,
Quite always, as it is, pretends to be winking,
For lovers receiving his charm, charm of a king,
Lured easily by perfect beauty of perky maid,
So secret desire lifts light to outer space of loneliness.

How often you see me in the street!
Stately words, we always meet;
I know not where you go in a hurry,
Sometimes sad, glad, serious
or desperate as the rest,
mostly you look cheerful and curious,
with same dresses and simple bag you carry,
you glance at me, perfectly the least,
but I stare at your beauty as you pass,
It is a little time until you vanish among the crowd,
I keep looking in search for you,
But you become a gentle scent in the mass,
And I burry a sigh which worth to be loud.
O, time as it is, I will wait another future,
When we can decide better possible right,
When we can ignore selfish pride of mortal nature,
And be faithful to lovely chance of ever delight,
When you hold me by the hand in the street,
And receive my attention, pacified when we meet.