My expectations run before my truth that lingered in absence of evidence
Time and again, I find my feelings innocently strode in some tempting quicksand
And my efforts to come out of it only allows my heart to sink to its extreme end.
If I have a heart of gold, then why it tends to break as if a glassful of water slips from the hand.
My sleeps are meagre and are punctured with a feelings of dejectedness
My expectations are outnumbered but have a glint of 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.