A searching has no mind of the time.
A empty heart becomes rot with unspeakable things.
Only if a hovering lust could quench a grown mans thirst.
Some thirst go unending forever to be a riddle baring no fruit.
No matter sweetness of smells, still it doesn't not satisfy.
A fore looming conclusion comes as wind hints of a direction to follow.
Worn are the thoughts, be it truth or fiction.
An ailment invisible to the naked eye.
Temporary afflictions come and go but this has not.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem