The Song Of Venus Poem by Mohammad Muzzammil

It is saying of the old,
Love is precious more than gold,
Belongs it to a tender heart,
That can't be sold in the mart.

Being magic yet it is blind,
Not easy but hard to find,
By thorns surrounded it like a rose,
Love lies in the mid of ratios.

Through eyes it alight the heart,
Create in a heart too much unrest,
On seeing her pace like a hart,
One sings a love song with zest.

Heart to heart was love before,
But now it falls on only pelf,
Remains not forever but a bit more,
And ends shortly like a delf.

Plucking stars and cleaving cloud,
At last, love you may get,
Thy love will make her proud,
But, impossible to her forget.