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Infatuate a poet for he’ll bathe you in Styx:
The words you whistle, tune you warble,
And smile you wear will never be dead;
They’ll forever live in the immortal pages
Of eternal rhymes and rhythms he weaves.
With a pen in his hand, like an occultist,
All your heart-wrecking pains and pangs
And your excruciating fears and tears,
He’ll divinely ameliorate into Elixir of Life
And shield you within his fanciful trance.
Half-blush smile from your maroon lips;
Breath-taking perfume of thy glossy locks;
Your trendy gait made for fleecy osculation,
And your juvenile, flowery ripened cheeks
Will never be aged in Ambroisa of his lines.
A minute will be to decades, exaggerated;
And a decade will be by centuries, deferred;
Thousand stars he’ll reap from thy weeping
Eyes and heat your sorrows with laughters
And make you live far beyond your death.
After the earth and ashes, you’ll still breathe
In the cracks and crevices of his imageries;
He’ll feed with his poetic Soma and Haoma
To immortalize you till all thousand Buddhas,
Thus in his grandeur, you’ll live for eternity.
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