Love, The Blind Faith Poem by Manas Mukherjee

She still be made to stab,
But lives the year's fall;
Hues, the essence, doth grab,
Such was she, the flower of love withal!

She did live to bloom the sun,
Did smile to hark the flow,
Yet, perchance, the eve came upon
And did dire her sublime glow.

For I stood and behold her grow,
Did dream to still the course;
Though, in vain, did she tow,
Out of death, collapsed her horse.

For love did she hide to err her death,
Hence for the sweet love traded her faith...