To the jingle of ankle-bells at mental depths,
When the sonance gets awakened,
There is naught its equal, naught its like.
It has come, invading ears at a grove of shyness;
Why despite resolution don't I find?
At memory's shrine, satisfied are which ones...
Those with tears held at heart's core.
Together with a moonlit night's myrtle;
In only His song, so just His thought, float on do I.
Coated by the hue of fresh green leaf are You, my Darling,
At abode of psyche, ever fit to be received cordially.
A history of love is Your story;
Hence, it brings delight to a mind deprived.
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And so will I hold You in memory.
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