She never knew what her idée fixe was;
Till she espied the crackpot in her sobs.
She never knew how down in the dumps could it have ever been;
Till she lost something which was her solely utmost win.
She trudged down and down heading for the dingy, sequestered basement;
As if to bear out the tenebrous view of therein similar to her gloomy fortune bathing in ailment.
She thereby discerning some kind of a spirit, felt a brawny clench;
It struck her hard, her travail and all which made her to wrench.
She had her heart strikingly bashed in that very juncture;
Though couldn't snivel, nor mewl before any to express its splintered structure.
She strived making her way back and managed to curve her lips so as to flash a twinkle of smile;
For now she carried not a heart but a billion pieces in her chest as a pile so alluringly hostile.
She chose then but chose too wisely, to live though in not what she dreamt but in a beautiful anxiety;
For the real culprit of her anguish were the throes of love, lackaday her sentiments weren't anymore in variety.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem