In Vain
You admired my sonnets, and slowly,
You began to feel something for me too.
With one soft,.tender, kiss, you offered
Your kind and tender heart too.
But who has broken the scarlet tulip flower pot?
And instead of blood, I see water spilled—
The flowers of love have withered,
Has sweetness met its end?
An old, forgotten book lies half-hidden,
Dust-covered on the lowest shelf.
You opened it once while sailing,
Yet you can’t recall even a moment of your life—
And still, you never throw it away. No!
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