70 (pardon me if in my)


PARDON ME, if in my pride,

O maiden of a century, yet to be born,

I picture you reading my poems,

While the moon fills the gaps in my verse with its shower of silence.

I seem to feel your heart throb and hear you murmur,

'If I were alive today and had we met he would love me.'

I know you say to yourself,

'Only for this night let me light my lamp for him at my balcony,

though I know he may never come.'

 

 

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