He wrote her a poem that he left and left.
She got it, read it and understood it,
About which there was no feedback for him.
Did she take it as he wanted her to?
Neither of them could be aware of that.
She was not bothered and he was helpless.
It is the fate of all literature.
Let us play them according to our whims.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem