Yon itinerates the Phoebe,
I feel not it's coolness
Sans aroma, crimson roses
That blooms within my seraglio,
Sun that giveth radiance
Scorches me not!
Lacks shade, the trees
Where I stand.
When damsels embrace me
Ne’er am I in lust,
Though posset I do drink
It embitters my tongue,
Sans my Psyche - this terra
Is inferno unto me.
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Author:
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Offline) - Published: December 15th, 2025 03:46
- Category: Sad
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments1
It is not only the with that we feel but the without. A lovely poem
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