Often, it happens grass is not green,
But green is grass, and no objection.
My love is the tree that is too green.
Who'd tell her that the weather works
In its own rhythm, and the green has
To suffer, and sometimes it is ashen,
And looks to offer nothing, though
It's summer, and its branches are bare
For her.
I fain she'd be a bird to understand this.
It's not forgetfulness that I'm not same
As I'd been in those happy days in school.
It's a matter of family wishes, and parents
Couldn't be betrayed  for their love.