If that flowering tree is not there,
That house is a lifeless image.
With no water flowing beneath
That bridge is a mere chain of stones.
Without a single vehicle
That road is a meaningless beautiful void.
Man is the root of all.
Without an idea,
Without a little emotion,
When in the lands of imagination
Deserts are spreading
That is a split-up incoherent scene
That flock of sheep
Is like moving poesy
With its words shifting.
If driven,
Poetry would
Die disturbed.
When no one is waiting
Speed has no meaning.
Without a person
Any collection
Would be an unmovable jungle
Without friendliness.
All have their eyes.
If tears do not pour out of them
They would be dry ruined caves.
Poetry sans empathy
Would be a vessel without moisture.
