If the morn...
Dear mine,
Comes with rain such...
And a song transmitted carries myth of a bard's insatiable Love...
And if still being drenched to the bone,
The cuckoo lone
Dares to chirp sweet
Shivering...
Her wings all wet too heavy
For a flight
Nevertheless...
If she still becomes a song...
Rose red is bound
To bloom...
Red rose is bound
To catch
The most beauteous form
-with little droplets like diamonds
All over her...
Her soft petals...
Her arrangement...
Her existence...
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