My Lady Poem by Prem Jhawar Spiritualangel

To you these lines by the consoling grace
of your eyes laughs and cries, a sweet dream,
by your pure soul and good to you
to the bottom of my severe distress,
alas! the hideous nightmare haunts me.

Don't have a truce goes mad, mad, jealous,
multiplying like a procession of wolves
during my fate after that bloody,
I suffer, suffer terribly, so.

The first moan of the first man
is only the price of mine,
swallows on an afternoon sky.

Concerns you; may have
on an mysterious cloudy sphere.

A beautiful September day tepid.