I know only one thing about her,
She is just seventeen.
And a college student.
Probably she has none,
Who can listen to the voice,
Of her broken heart.
Being deceived in love,
The strains of her feelings,
Burst out like streams,
In pretty nice poems.
Like the violent waves,
Of a hot stream,
I see tear in her eyes,
I feel pain of her heart.
Like the dry petals of a rose,
Faded in sun shine,
Too early,
And premature,
And couldn’t survive,
Till the full moon light!
When wisdom of sky,
Is scattered in the night.
The petals about whom,
Shelley wrote are heaped,
For the lovely bed,
Of his beloved who has gone.
And memories of beloved,
On the bed of emotions,
It is love itself,
That slumbers on.
The sweet little girl,
At this stage of age,
Can’t realize,
It’s at all not love.
Just an attraction,
That will not lost long,
I advised her and wrote,
To forget the play boy.
Concentrate on studies,
And should keep writing,
Her lovely poems,
On her friends and games.
Oh God! Why did you give us a heart!
Oh Nature! Why do you call!
I know it well,
She will not! Not at all!