Smoky evening makes the mist-
To be just what it wants to be,
If somewhere you cry;
My pain gets sound,
What it sounds to be.
As all has gone,you prove to be more real-
They exchange their traits.
No more mendacious hope is here,
What left more in the cold of an eye;
Though warmth in wallet.
Rags are new again,
If that are touched by thee,
Experiences are falls,
If thy love a delusion at all.
Scold me, curse me, named me inferno –
The blessing of my love is that,
If I die, nobody’ll call you widow.