There was a star in life agreed, it was much loved when it sank, it did sink. Look at the sky’s vastness, so many stars have broken away so many loved ones it has lost the lost ones, were they ever found? But tell me, for the broken stars does the sky ever grieve? That which is past, is gone.
There was a flower in life which, I doted everyday on when it dried, it dried away. Look at the garden’s breast, dried, many of its saplings have welted, many of its flowers have that which welted, did it ever bloom? But tell me, for dried flowers does the garden create an uproar? That which is past, is gone.
There was a cup of wine in life which, you gave your heart and soul for when it broke, it did break. Look at the winehouse’s courtyard shaken, where many cups are fall, and merge with the ground that which fall, do they ever rise? But tell me, for broken cups does the winehouse ever regret? That which is past, is gone.
Soft mud, we are made of, wine drops do tend to fall. A short life, we have come with, winecups do tend to break. Yet, inside the winehouse there is a winepot, there are winecups. Those, struck by intoxication do splurge away on the wine. He’s a raw drinker, whose affection escapes no cup, one who has burnt from true wine does he ever shout, or scream? That which is past, is gone.
