No Means To Convey Poem by Mehta Hasmukh Amathaal

"O little, my favorite"
Will you ever delight?
I whispered to her
My hand went in air

I never knew
But she was dream of few
I always stared at
Her attention too was caught

She will be seen
Again to be off scene
I will breathe heavily
To have her readily

I have no means to convey
As she always runs away
It easy to catch air
But difficult to have her

No doubt she is nature's child
As if flower from desert and wild
I shall know her full
When my attempts are successful

But I miss
In morning bliss
I find her face in water
When will she come and alter? (my life)