There was a star in life
agreed,it was much loved
when it sank,
it did sink.
Look at the sky’s vastness,
so many stars have broken away
so many loved ones it has lost
the lost ones, were they ever found?
But tell me,
for the broken stars
does the sky ever grieve?
That which is past, is gone.T
here was a flower in life
which, I doted everyday on
when it dried, it dried away.
Look at the garden’s breast,dried, many of its saplings have
welted, many of its flowers have
that which welted, did it ever bloom?
But tell me, for dried flowers
does the garden create an uproar?
That which is past, is gone.
There was a cup of wine in life
which, you gave your heart and soul for
when it broke, it did break.Look at the winehouse’s courtyard
shaken, where many cups are
fall, and merge with the ground
that which fall, do they ever rise?
But tell me, for broken cups
does the winehouse ever regret?
That which is past, is gone.Soft mud, we are made of,wine drops do tend to fall.A short life, we have come with,winecups do tend to break.Yet, inside the winehousethere is a winepot, there are winecups.Those, struck by intoxicationdo splurge away on the wine.He’s a raw drinker,whose affection escapes no cup,one who has burnt from true winedoes he ever shout, or scream?
That which is past, is gone.
agreed,it was much loved
when it sank,
it did sink.
Look at the sky’s vastness,
so many stars have broken away
so many loved ones it has lost
the lost ones, were they ever found?
But tell me,
for the broken stars
does the sky ever grieve?
That which is past, is gone.T
here was a flower in life
which, I doted everyday on
when it dried, it dried away.
Look at the garden’s breast,dried, many of its saplings have
welted, many of its flowers have
that which welted, did it ever bloom?
But tell me, for dried flowers
does the garden create an uproar?
That which is past, is gone.
There was a cup of wine in life
which, you gave your heart and soul for
when it broke, it did break.Look at the winehouse’s courtyard
shaken, where many cups are
fall, and merge with the ground
that which fall, do they ever rise?
But tell me, for broken cups
does the winehouse ever regret?
That which is past, is gone.Soft mud, we are made of,wine drops do tend to fall.A short life, we have come with,winecups do tend to break.Yet, inside the winehousethere is a winepot, there are winecups.Those, struck by intoxicationdo splurge away on the wine.He’s a raw drinker,whose affection escapes no cup,one who has burnt from true winedoes he ever shout, or scream?
That which is past, is gone.
