My expectations ran before my truth and lingered in the absence of evidence.
Time and again, I find my feelings innocently striding in some tempting quicksand.
And my efforts to come out of it only allow my heart to sink to its extreme end.
If I have a heart of gold, then why does it tend to break as if a glassful of water slips from my hand?
My sleeps are meagre and are punctured with a feeling of dejectedness
My expectations are outnumbered but glint profound genuineness
O Traveller of inner and barren roads of my heart, accept my humble request
Don’t curse the paucity of my granary before the end of the harvest.