Suspicion has spoilt the pool of pity
in my wise Moon and covered her in dark.
Frail she was to doubt my integrity
and in railing me, she does it for a lark.
As the sandbank in a river filters water
and as human skin conducts out heat and dirt,
on seeing my faults, my Moon gets hotter
and at times, hurl on me harsh words to hurt.
Uncleared doubts will guide one to sorrow
and suspicion fostered will end the love deep.
Love is not a book for reading to borrow
it is more, more and more to make poets to weep.
Being firm in avoiding exchange of words with me
will lead you to shed seas of tears and from me to flee.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem