30 | November | 2012

And she would ask me why I write about love.
Is love the only subject I have known?
Why not I write about sparrows and tiger and dove?
Love is love, I tell her, and don’t you moan.

I know very little than love as such.
I think of thoughts and my heart unfold,
Many a tests against me she would hold.
I try to tell her that I love her much.

Keenly I glance at her and I do see:
She thinks not of this man but many a man.
Oh, she thinks of men better than me!
Ah, how do I confess my love for her then?