A Sick Man's Words..

You seem tensed & too deeply strained,

Perhaps something crucial has happened,

With wrinkles on your upper face,

Towards me you gently approach,

Your stand gives the feel of a September breeze,

A priceless and bizarre experience

To design a beautiful pasquinade,

Would be a slang on your beauty,

You are the Sun’s first shine,

The oldest drop of Irish Wine,

An aristocratic exaggeration of delicacy,

You are the wind of serenity

I wonder why this sense of sadness,

Upon your delicate face?

Is it the disease that has restrained

Me unwillingly to my bed?

Don’t worry love, this isn't the moment,

When I shall bade attachments and faith..

I shall be back to life soon in a while,

Could you just stay near me all this time?