I sang to her the song of love
And lust. And blood and lilies.
The colours of life, I bought
For her; The poems I mused
Of great many bards and ducks
The allegory of not my own;
But the love I did.
All the second hand emotions
Poured and poured.
He sang to me the song of love
And lust. And blood and lilies.
The colours of life, He bought
For me, The poems he mused
Of great many bards and ducks
The art and oil that he trapped
And the love he did.
All the third hand emotions
Poured and poured.
He sang to her the song of love
And lust. And blood and lilies.
The colours of life, He bought
For her, The poems he mused
Of great many bards and ducks.
And the love, ah, they did!
The vault of the art they think they treasure
All the fourth hand emotions
Poured and poured
Men sang to women the song of love
And lust. And blood and lilies.
The colours of life, they bought
For the ladies, The poems they mused
Of great many bards and ducks
The world full of handy emotions
And the love, Ow, they did!
All the fifth class emotions
Poured and poured
I sang to my love the song of love
And lust. And blood and lilies.
Ah! It’s never enough
The exotic the she is, I tried to paint.
The colours obsolete, the torture remained.
The love for her. That I cannot contain.
It pours out to kiss her feet, but never succeed.
The attempts remained. On the papers and canvas.
That I thought I lost, but intact.
I exhaled, with her, trying to contain.
The love that I had.
It still survived.
He sang to me the song of love
And lust. And blood and lilies.
The pure joy, it flowed.
To death. A man came along, saw the colour
He searched and searched, for his own scar
In the streaks of wasted colours.
But the love he did, only obsolete
For my first hand emotions,
Handed down for hierarchy, for I lived my moments,
Full of life, I exhaled for him.
The papers and canvas rolled and rolled.
