To tell you the truth my humble folks
No one ever sang melodies nor I evoke
sighs of love, nor were woven any aching
hymns, no blind poet was ever penning,
ballads of mine love, while young lovers
were busy making love under thick covers
I was simply trying to stand my ground
Only trying to nurse some old wound
I did have few dry kisses to my share
Enough to call them some sort of affair
To keep the sluggish heart-beating,
And the crimson thin blood gushing
For I knew that true love is a luxury
A privilege reserved for not the many
I had vowed my entire life to a service
And all I ever did was the same service
Knowing that not every floret is a rose
Some of us are condemned only to compose
Verses of love in the long endless nights
While thinking of kisses in our imaginary flights