She is liar, she broke my heart;

Going through the pyre I could

remember her not .

This way she sings, that way she laughs;

I may cry my heart out,

Thinking she forgets me not.

The yellow boy with a gleam in his eye,

Laughs with enthusiastic yet wordless shine.

Feels he does but shares he not,
What could be the death of devotion and honest lot ?

'Here me boy' - the watchman claims
-' love is a joy but if only one not claims!' ;

He shrugs his body and walks along the shore,

With countless times watching, searching the path and his door.

He hopes she would come,
If not today then tomorrow,

but the old man in the street says, 'that could be a lie my dear fellow'.

Yet there's hope as long as one lives;
how could not you see who mourns and weeps ?

Our heart is made of desire, it writhes for fire ,

Seldom it seek what's true and most entire.

It will sought and claim that nobody could blame,

seldom though we know what more it had to sail.

The heart is no saint it follows its own lane,

the nothingness of living is too joyous a ride to be tamed.

So, here I see as bright as the morning Sun,

She is not the pious and relying one.

She is not a lier to me still,

but she broke my heart and sang the death of my blooming heart shaped ring!