From the blessed hands of whoever
Thy shape to mine does not alike
I taste what thou savor'st never
Nor my eyes glimmer fire as thine
Thy song was sung with crying lyres
But mine was cheered by lively bard
And when to each other collides
Colours of melodies it had!
Though a same poem do we chant
Yet our tongues differ in rhyme
Though we sit on familiar sand
Thy poor edge hurts how not as mine
As days insist with diff'rences
And with flaws and imperfection
Thus thorns been learnt on each's roses
Like fangs kept from re'lization
And for the hours of the truth
Sometime disparity couldn't tell
If the affection all did root
Or delusions upon eyes fell
But with all my love unto thee
As the medium to boast the world
That with all thy love unto me
Dissimilarity gets old!
©eyji
S