Melancholy moonbeams cascade
over a lattice of canopies
of the overhanging trees,
like millions of sparkling snakes
slithering over the surface of
the silent waters of a lackadaisical lake.
A sense of bodeful uneasiness
floods my solitary soul;
No one and nothing could hurt more
when love is lost,
No one and nothing pleases one either.
In how many varied places
do I profess my love?
In how many ways
do I proclaim my love?
A quivering blanket of mist
stealthily envelopes the grassy plains
drawing me into its rapture.
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