Much like him, O Suman, you know
Unto the vex'd dream; but I fear
The dusty path must not entangle, though
And woozily come no a flower
Twelve a half of day hours rest
Than much the holy players' play
O, what an embassy who fought for waist
Till the night comes before next day
An e'nt if is matter in life,
A mistake if is matter loud,
No a bar of Love will stand in belief
Where lasts no song, but only cloud.
COPYRIGHT@ RESERVED BY PIJUSH BISWAS
01/15/2017
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem