The Poet's Favourite Girl Poem by Abdul Rahman

Best poets are always divine,
Even in utter dark they shine.
For them life is a flourished olden art
In which they always want to become a part.

Once, a poet of this sort was in worry.
To make his hapless son merry
His lurking Lord offered him a boon,
In a trice he asked me to reply soon.

I'm wishing not for a Lynx's sight,
A novice always won't be right.
I also not wish for the Nymph's kiss,
It's only my 'Pale Rose-Winged Angel' whom I miss. (The poet replied)

Nothing in this World singly arise,
I never meant that a true love will demise. (The God said)
Since I loved so, my wish was granted.
But there was a reason: I neglected. (-)

Oh Lord, now thy girl is mine,
And adding taste to my supper like wine.
Calling even the Moon towards her scent,
Making even the hot summer pleasant.

The Poet's World was thriving,
As his glee, with his favourite girl was growing. (-)
Time turned, the girl bloomed,
But his likeness for her, never gloomed.

The World goes by the Dominion's guide,
Now loneliness is the condition he laid.
He may force the lives to depart,
It's us whom he wants to tear apart.

Let not the Lord eat her with pain,
As she won't reincarnate ever again.
Oh Lord, clear her mind which preserves me,
For her I'm always the 'Well Wisher' to be.

It's true that pleasures are none but sad,
I'm not enthralled by love to go mad.
Loosing his all: the poet recited
'The World's love lost to the Heaven's mere delighted.