Night at eight,
there's no light
Alone with might
stood she as knight;
An hour for sure
pain and pressure
How could one measure?
but for stronger, sure its lesser;
She was waxed with pox
nothing there to relax
Trying to the max
stood up there with some ox;
Atlast it came- the bus:
Then she knew the curse:
The better is the worse
There's no weak heart to merce;
-(8th march 2014)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A sublime start with a nice poem, Muthu. You may like to read my poem, Love And Lust. Thank you.