The flower of love falls off. It would no further sing to illuminate poet’s innate power of creative faculty, no more create ripples of inspiration on the ocean of his consciousness. A poetry of pains goes on reverberating everywhere in the sphere of his psychic arena. The distraught poet mumbles in grief at the loss of his platonic love. His queen is lost. His world is shut against the door of his inner apartment of beauty which gives on the real taste of freedom. The fountain of bliss turns into a dead spring of sorrow imprisoned deep inside the heart of the poet doesn’t find way to burst out its pain and remains unrevealed. Tears from the weeping heart move on secretly from nerves to nerves, veins to veins, from the base of the spinal cord to the top of the head transmitting sensation of emotional impulsiveness and the poet is thrown in the realm of great sadness. Everything is invisible to the view of people’s eyes.
“My days that have gone away
Will I ever get them back again?
On the horizon of the monsoon days
They disappeared with the shadows endless;
The image of a sad countenance
Flown away with the easterly wind
Singing a tearful melody.
In the shades of the dense forest
The motionless speeches of the distant past
Waiting for someone to come,
Remain without a saying.”