When love remains as figment of mere dreams,
As flimsy silk, or webs that spiders spin,
Yet serves us best, when life's hard crust it creams,
As joys, that might at times, been spread too thin;
Such when a scent wafts sweet from blooms that dance,
And picky nose, knows not, from which it's blown,
The same when eyes hailed scores of stars at once,
And heart is naught to know, which to enthrone;
How strange of love, yet fickle, is this thing,
We worry with so much, just as with none,
Whilst we collect a lot, take everything,
bBut from the many, only choose but one;
......What justice is to pick a special bloom,
......When, doing so, would leave the rest to gloom?
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem