Sitting idle, in this afternoon sun,
Drowsy with sleep from lack of fun,
Waiting for the day to finally end,
My thoughts, again, art to thee turned.
Perhaps, had I known thee more,
Had I spake or atleast, seen thee before,
In my passing youth, or even in my infancy,
'Twould appear not so hopeless a fancy.
Exactly what it is, it puzzles me,
That draweth me to think of thee,
Is it the name by which thou art called?
'Cause truth be told, I like the name Emerald.
Or is it just that care i'm known to own,
For all friends known and yet to be known,
Such that, all these i have to thee declared,
hall upon another, tomorrow be transferred?
Whatsoever be the truth, on my part,
Is of no significance in this regard.
All I know is it has made my afternoon,
And on it's account, I'll be asleep soon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem