On a far fertile land stood a soul full of strength
Of a fruitful blossoming source that soothes the mind
And by just a line lies an opposite force of sterility
Which springs the total defeat of its coatless offsprings,
Shamefully looking frail and wasted.
Burning tears for fruitfulness rush down her face on the barren land
With her innate limited strength,
And cries of compassion for a union with new life.
Her screams of a prolific state wish to be heard
And oh! A total freedom from deficiencies, she pleas.
But a line of fruitless divergence sets us apart.
And your cry for fertility draws my heart,
I see a drop here, and there,
Then things fall apart!
My fingers are crossed!
My trust is hurt!
For no transaction lies in-between the fruitful and the impotent.
What sayest thou?!
Your heart beats for a taste of fertility,
To bring the lost hope to your fraternity,
But I stand in fright,
And see my fertile ones go down
And one half-fertile, lying across the line.
My counterparts are shaken
But my stance is taken!
Futility is futile, but not fertile.
Hence we are two worlds apart and not at art.