It is to be made of fantasy,
All made of passion, and all made of wishes,
All adoration, duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience and impatience
—(Act 5, scene 2, 89-92, As You Like It, Shakespeare)
Your brown curly hair,
Your playful voice,
Your humbleness beneath,
All make me frenzied.
Love is like an immature pomegranate,
fused with sweetness and bitterness.
Love is sighs, many times and more.
Love is twists and turns,
hurting inside without scars.
My love, I will cry you a river.
All these pretending, these personas
Will they go on forever?
I prayed and prayed,
Pondered and wept.
If I were an arrogant bird,
I would be imprisoned in a golden birdcage.
Love is being put-upon,
Love is hope and extinguishment.
A butterfly is at his prime,
conjuring a red rose aside.