My God each day prolongs my sorrow
It turns black to silver each silver hair,
Will tell a woeful tale of love tomorrow,
Makes my woes immortal the pen glare
I write woes in rime to teach you a lesson,
All glooms behind the beauty temple rest,
When the beauty goes leaving woe passion,
None to serve you love as a beauty ghost
I call beauty day disease and night balm,
That does cure soon for the coming days,
The whole organs feel a heavenly calm,
You lose knowingly in different ways.
Reason prolongs your life it is a life force,
Emotions kill life as a child in concourse.