A jingle, July- poured the juice of joy,
but thirty trickles took away its tang.
The days departed and with their convoy
went poetry and now remains a pang.
Bestowing love with leeway, is he still
belittling beauty, being its basis sole?
Beguiling rhyme, bequeathing beats at will,
benumbing bosoms with his odic dole?
O sonneteer, serenade me today,
sing again 'n' lend my palms a prayer.
Let horizons blend with tears and obey
this ardent longing, the colour of air.
A hundred hymns on hope my heart recites,
that you'll return soon with your past delights.
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