All my days passed walking on thorns.
All my nights passed running on knives.
Not in spring ever, my life passed only in
Storm, rain and winter; Nobody offered love.
Fragrance hurt my nose, flowers remained silent.
Drunken melody played in ears, cuckoos were not seen.
It’s such a violin that plays with wrong tune.
It’s such a verse that lacks rhythm and rhyme.
Tearing the pages of ledger, I made paper-boxes;
So the debts of life remained unpaid, what a fall!
Life is a harsh sea; who will save him from drowning
If he goes on a voyage there with his little canoe?
This is my life; but, alas, where will I flee leaving it?
I run on knives, still I stay touching this life of mine.
