Lovelia, my sole Muse, worshipping whom 

My senses took birth, came into age and got perfection

Some philanderers may turn to a poet running after thee

And their pieces of poetry may outlive than that of mine

But that mine is replete with true love, truer appreciation of love

My poetry may not bear the cadence of prosody

It may not bear fine figures

Yet I assure mine are the lines true in feeling

Look at me- my eyes turned bulging, my figure decrepit 

Sore on my brows, broken is my voice being in love with thee

Have my love competent suffered so long only for love?

If so let me not write, let me die unuttered, unsung. 0 0 0

(This poem ‘Lovelia-55’ 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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