My golden orb ache when I see the ocean been produced on your eyelids,
my heart becomes sore when your sky painted eyes embraces the Rose
spilling dews of Eden on the lonely grass of Rome,
i am poked by your sharp tunes of symphonies which sting me —like the thorns of the wild ; rolling down like curtains of glacier,
will i continue to drown In this lake Chad bathing in the oil you left.