Bemoaning for the souls cry,
Wondering how far thee can go searching without a sigh?
For where to find the antiquity of our souls,
Of the self which have thousand calls-
from the gleaming light clouds,
And the flake white shrouds ;
From the pots of gin,
And the worldly babbles that we pin;
From the evil on the mouth
And the Jataka fables of south,
Oh love, how long will my soul cry
For the prudent lie to fly,
Of humans parallelism to the self
For how can we find it even with help?
It's million things in one,
And one thing in millions of sun ;
It's the fount of our self searching
As well as for our destructive lurching,
It's identity oh my love, for it's caramel that melts in us
As well as the achromatic ice that freezes and separates from us.