Now, I’m not going to write on thee anymore,
I’m not going to write on thee.
You have cussed me enough,
By your wrenching decrees.
If you are a virgin of beautiful heart,
Can drail me through your love and art,
And if you will smooch me perfectly well,
Love me through the sluices of thy heart.
Lady, not only shall I write on thee,
For I swear upon my bestower muse;
I shall kiss thy forehead and taste thy lips,
Every night unto every noon.
And the verses grand, I shall erect on thee.
Babe, don’t be selfish, don’t you be so coy,
Grudges all tonight we shall together destroy.
Play with me, walk with me,
Lady always be next to my every sight.
If you won’t, then don’t be ever,
Don’t play, don’t walk with me,
But always be the colourful subject of my eyes.
Now I’m not going to write on thee anymore!
I’m not going to write on thee.
I shall have other duties to excel,
Then to sing about thee, days along.
Some values necessary to live on, to love on.
Hush, Hush! You infinite reflections,
Born countless, all the clocks ’round.
I’ve some daily chores ado,
Go away on the shore of separation and wail
Incisively like a djinni and djiniri- in woods
[moaning always for their lost elfin grot]
And stop knocking the flimsy door of my heart.
Cause, I cannot forge t’is empty love,
These letters of foul imagination;
Thy loaded memories in my smithy anymore.
Now I’m not going to write on thee anymore!
I’m not going to write on thee.
O’ heart, insane heart, be patient, be brave!
As she is not in promising love with you,
Then to whom dost thou art imploring for?
For the moon like the wolfman does.
I pine for her as wolf does beseech for
The moon, under the portentous nights.
Ah! Yesterday she was there, next to me in the department,
For we have the same batch, same classroom, same tutors.
Despite the fore-mentioned profile,
I dread to stretch my hands fore,
To open her heart’s crystal door.
The dame doest mirror diplomatic manners, snobbish style,
Seated there, as anciently; the woman glued to the throne.
Unable to do anything the day,
Forwhy, the binding of my T-Shirt did bind
My hands certainly under control, by telling;
Don’t stroll among the realms of sovereign princesses.
Clothes were sumptuously on, but
For my heart too sufficient to be naked.
So, I dread to face her, quite nay that day.
Now I’m not going to write on thee anymore,
O’ Mermaid, O Houri of heavens!
I’m not going to write on thee.
For I don’t want to baroque the wall of my room, via syllables;
“THAT’S MY LAST DUCHESS PAINTED ON THE WALL.”
At t’is hour of century!
For, where shall I summon the Fra Pandolf from?
Attention! ravishing ladies mustn’t interlock with fools,
The tramps are lurking for the fissure,
May devour you up ravenously.
It’s deracinating from thy part,
Which pinches me fundamentally.
Thy acts are rough, so does my heart backlash; refuses
To take your rough; wrenching decrees anymore.
Therefore, I made up today not to write on thee anymore,
Not to write on thee, unto thou wilt not sympathise:
Love me truly, as I’m loving you,
Like a devotee to any abstracted deity.
