That feeling of innate yet inane love is,
Still churning the mind and the soul,
Though the inflammation was set years ago,
And both life and love decided to part ways,
Like the North Pole and the South Pole pulling,
Apart the median nature of the soul to fresher,
Dimensions or the sportsmen trying pulling on,
Their tracksuits before the whistle blow them off,
On a run to newer life and then gathering around,
The fires to cheers or jeers. It was a basal love, anyways.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem