Everything would come to an end,my love
             even the frenzied season of love we celebrate.
In loneliness I muse, dreamily
             pour the molten gold of my heart, incessantly
in to molds one after another;
            on this one I don't have to remind myself not even once,
in my consciousness  this abstract is darkly painted
                 on it's live silvery screen:

She sits waiting patiently for me to come to rest,
                 in that secluded, quiet house
where love and longing, sighs and moans,
                  even the poetic cadence, my only aphrodisiac,
like many hued evening clouds,
                       disappear in the dark, till the next day dawns.