Your Rosy Love’s Wounds Set Me Cry. Poem by Subrata Ray

What more you can offer,
Just gardening your empathy,
Knelling down to your comrades,
To draw their ego's sympathy.

So as to cover the Pity's door,
Where in body the soul is oblivious,
Your submission, your cry, may focus,
On them, the fiery touch-stone's light,
For there, your love remains and sprouts.

Cry did not you, to your Lord?
Being burdened senses' pride,
To dash the layers away,
So as to bring you in light.

You mounted the pitch,
Now the conqueror of the ridge,
The beggar in emperor’s castle,

So why not grace?
Why not glaze?
After crossing the bar.

Your fight,
Your light,
Turn you servitude disclaimer.

For that reasonless reason,
In all seasons, -
Age and clime by,

Caverns of cloudy souls,
In their crisis make you goal,
And empty their sufferings garbage on you.