World at times is a spring of mirth
And at times a root of melancholiness,
Gaiety and ruth are ineluctable quirk of nature
Where it leaves no beings unbrushed.
Bight trice would shimmer some days
And putrid flash would strike at times,
Discern that's a puissant canon of nature.
When grievance mounts the golden throne,
When relation twists into tears,
When desires wrench into agony,
Never hell bent to confide suicide
For those troubles proceed the incredible comforts that follows
Alike the precession of hell heretofore the heaven.
Whenever melancholic flash haunts you
And coerce you to confide suicide,
Think no other than thy indulgent mother
Who lugged you almost a year in her belly
And who raise you up, with vacant scars
Physically and mentally, all well sound.
She never raise you up, to entertain thy death unnatural and astound,
She just raise you to live a life
And amend world into a ameliorate place to dwell in,
Life is a precious douceur of God
And thy mother is a God in human form,
So let's say no to suicide in all tastes of life.
---
With quite some ups and downs, twists and turns,
so illusionarily the mundane affairs fare,
racking everything up so far into thin air.
Traceless the same is my beloved,
like a draught slipping through the door shoved,
only a wisp of fragrance, ethereally evocative, in dream of old lingering deep.
Meretriciousness submerges, merging my melancholiness into high wind,
without the slightest sightly serenity in retrospect seeming to seep.
So lonesome the small alcove, my innermost outpouring has only nihilism to find.
End of dream brings me no beginning of waking,
no fortuity for fancy fondness in the making.
Royal, royal roads of love far and near, just lurk out of my lap;
Neat, neat niches for couples a dime a dozen, just lack of mine.
Freezing up instantly both dismal floccules citywide flying
and full bosom of sentimentality seething out of my sap,
only wanders and wades constant contemplation in wooing want.
Did you see her? I guess you didn't.
Since then, she never went out again. She hid all herself for years inside those tall apartments and buildings. She walked through strap-like hallways and crawled under low surfaced ceilings. She used to be inside since then. She concealed her melancholiness and never gave the world a chance to see her once more. She was an outside person actually, but not anymore.
I just lately learned all of these about her. I searched for all the streets in London and Paris, but never found a hint of her. Not knowing she's immured behind those thick walls of concrete edifices.
Now, I cautiously observe every single window of an apartment, building, and skyscraper. I keep an eye on every single windowpane, hoping one day you'll cabbage the curtains and take a glance. Lucky enough if you'll open the glass that separates you from me. Luckier if you'll dare to open a door, and let the world to see your face we missed the most.