A figure almost black,
Seeing, passion I do lack.
Originated from jest,
All in all nothing rest.
As that figure appears,
First, I do feel fears.
Even when my eyes are close,
The essence of that figure blows.
As bird can fly,
Towards that figure, heart wants to fly.
As that figure hits my mind,
All other imagination gets bind.
Only that very figure,
Remains within me, I cheer.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem