It’s past midnight and here I sit down and wonder
Is there anything in this world to stay for ever?
I guess no, that is why death is the only bona fide
Death of emotion; death of love; death of friendship,
And hence everything goes to slumber.
The love of a young maiden is raw and crude
It is as simple as the morning bird’s song,
But simplicity is not what people seek.
Alas, the morning bird is not treasured but the nightingale is,
So the young maiden sits and broods.
A little birdie sits over her slender shoulder,
Whispers “love is a mystery that not a soul can solve”
But she still sits and tries to figure out the puzzle of love and life
Till she hears a faint voice singing at the other corner of the land
“Wise men say, only fools rush in……”
Thus both the cries grow fainter.