For whom would I preserve my poverty-stricken pieces of poetry?

And for whom would I sketch my faltering feelings?

I’m so much woe-worried that my verses may not see light

Only I know how much agony have been suffered

In hatching and bringing them out from my womb.

If, my Lovelia, thy cruelty kills me before time

And my feelings remain incomplete

And my verses in the dark

Then my mates and critics, my friends and colleagues

Would sneer at me and would say— 

This pretty poet had beguiled what he ought not to yield

If it is so and I meet death before my death 

Thy cruelty would be accused of it 

And then my readers would shower their curses upon thee

Then all my praises for thy beauty would be proved futile. 0 0 0

(This poem ‘Lovelia-53’ originally belongs to the poetry book entitled Lovelia, a sequence of love poems by Menonim Menonimus)


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Posted in Menonimus Poems.

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