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.