Not much have I narrated this story,
Who's about glee and about worry.
I became quiet after seeing her,
This bluesy woe; o soul, this does vary.
We are the nightingales of this garden,
We are the poets, wielding poetry.
This crafted work is veiling prejudice,
I don't see the hands crafting embroidery.
Sometimes a love, sometimes a description,
Mâhî's drawing a gleamy gallery.
Jul 20, 2017
Jul 20, 2017 at 9:34 AM UTC
Not much have I narrated this story,
Who's about glee and about worry.
I became quiet after seeing her,
This bluesy woe; o soul, this does vary.
We are the nightingales of this garden,
We are the poets, wielding poetry.
This crafted work is veiling prejudice,
I don't see the hands crafting embroidery.
Sometimes a love, sometimes a description,
Mâhî's drawing a gleamy gallery.
