To the side of stream
A person walked wretchedly
For whom the love is worship
He's finding love's stockpile,
In a cyan dale
In a malachite of Madras
In the ocean secretly shallow,
But the reason he was quiet for
was the lithe dab love
making life inconsistent.

The more he lugged
The less he got
Turning him sidling
In any situation silent
Though it never caused pang
But never that happiness too
Exceptionally effortless
This dab love surely
Shrugged off his life.