Our love hasn't yet pleaded poverty,
but there are days, my dear - it goes hungry.
Do you think our love has a life, condemn?
That withers away like our last encounter.
It's bled so much like a cut flower stem.
It withers and shrivels like a burnt flower.
It rolls its head into the shadows cool, hem.
Here, not even the wild mint can tower.
Above the weeds of neglect left to grow
they've divided us like Juliet & Romeo.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Great poem. Love needs to be nurtured. With out enough care it sure withers like a flower deprived of water and sun light. Thanks for sharing.
Thanks, Savita much obliged.