O, the overflowing fountain of my eye!
Even the rain passes ultimately with a sigh,
It’ll be amiss to compare thee to morn dew,
For thou don’t wait for the morn to come for a few.
What clouds make you rain forever?
Is it an unrequited passion or a hassling ogre so clever?
The swelled eyes tell the story of your form,
Inside there I see some violent and airy storm.
Stop running the flood of your brimming ocean,
For it seems against the nature’s call,
Only a seasonal rain is welcomed by all,
Let the light of your lamp make my whole and soul brighten.
