when love comes, we sit and sigh
wanders to and fro
on the proscenium of the mind
slowly unbidden joy-drops fill our eyes
a little word comes along, 'is that me? '
it’s soft and scarcely heard
when love departs, we mope apart
as owls mope on a tree
although we keenly feel the pain
we can’t tell what ails the heart
slowly a little word comes along 'is that me? '
of all the eloquence of the love
what lies hidden is scarcely known
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem