A poet has seven lives –
Three he dwells in heaven; three he burns in hell;
One, in the sea of life he dives,
And drinks at the edge of the hollow, bottomless well.
In this life here, I saw you, o woman in red.
Beaming with the sky’s glow – full of stars,
And inside, the wisdom of the dead
Who fell in the front line in the wars.
You talked to me of poetry and prose,
And my fingers trembled in your presence.
I grew flowers for you – a Dianthus and a Rose,
And they are nowhere near to your essence.
When the flowers bloomed, in rain,
I realised – all my love is in vain.