Why ask about the condition of fakirs like us ?
We are water separated from its river
Emerged from a tear
Meloncholy, distressed
of course I knew that a painting is just
a whimsy of colours-
and when I entered the emporium of Love
I paid a price countless bodies did I find,
but not one mind did I meet.
This was written in my fate,
in the four lines of my palm.
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Meloncholy - sad & pensive
whimsy - humour