Passing through a narrow street,
All over known for its treat.
There, I saw an old lady sitting on a tiny seat,
Selling flowers to my lady, the lady of my dreams.

Oh, sweet! Hesitant I was to go closer to her at that very hour.
"How should I start the conversation?" She was already holding the flower.
Murmured and hummed, I opened my mouth,
Summoning with just a formal "hi."

She smiled and replied to my summon gracefully.
Stumbled I was—my brain lost its dictionary,
And started playing a stupid pictionary.
She laughed, called me "cute," and walked away.

I missed my chance—just by sly away.
Since then, I pass by day to day,
Though it distances my daily commune.
Forgetting this Cupid-spread disease is immune.