Thrice she looked away,
Reminding me of the month of May.
Why does she put on such a cold expression,
Only for me and same for none.
What wrong have I done?
That even the warm summers deprive me of its bright shining sun.
When things begin to get better they only get worse,
I live as a corpse waiting to be laid at the back of a hearse.
A look is what I crave for,
I've lost plenty of battles but hope to win the war.
The path is studded with thorns,
Beyond the thorns lies your love as comfortable and soothing as Elysian lawns.