She was always a mystery; still she is,
I cannot call her name, a mysterious piece.
She is the air I breathe, the vision I see,
The voice I speak, and all, invisible she.
Still I intend to paint, not through my pen,
But through my mind, failed though time and again.
I cannot see her now, she is too far,
Still she is within me, there's no bar.
She is the loveliest piece I had ever seen,
And mysterious too, always increasing my keen.
I cannot call her a moon, for it has black spot,
Nor the golden star, sometimes it's too hot.
I cannot compare her, she will be a mystery,
In future as she is now and as was in history.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem