Whispers Of Night
Love never gave birth to poets
Darling, love never gave birth to poets,
as love is born in cradle of the grief;
it crawls and takes your icy heart away
and quickly hides into the silver mists!
It prowls for prey, it haunts for glory
silently watching, perceiving the sound
of hands that touch when love is bound,
on this realm of flabbergasting sadness.
We're just actors on this dreadful scene,
I'm afraid I slaughter another dream!
still, life unfolds: we love, we fly and die
yet, at some point, the smoky curtains rise!
We never love, unless with a broken heart:
often claim to love just one, but secretly-
Yes, we do love another; words mean nothing
but contraption, as we're too afraid to fight!
I cannot always portray it in jolly colours
because my heart was bit by snake of pain,
I am the one, who in your soul will remain
as the one you loved within a silly game.
Therefore, the velvet mask of night is set
upon my eyes when my weary soul is dying,
don't ever shed tears; now it's too late-
past midnight; the candles aren't burning!
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