He Who has remained unknown, different,
His mildly intoxicating vernal breeze,
It's afloat upon celestial firmament.
He Who's mixed with crimson efflorescence,
Upon eastern sky, at end of gloomy darkness,
The language of heart's hope, a sleepless night,
Propped up by faith in Him alone, it dances.
His song I sing... about Him only do I think;
I rise and fall on just His undulating stream.
By just His love's exudation, its hint of sweetness,
A song rings out, a lute jangles.
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Wherefrom does this sweetness come?
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