Mellifluous
symphonies from our pens,
Cascades
spontaneously only for each other.
The
faces of the other characters of the world,
Look
faint and feeble to our love-laden eyes,
And fail
to feature or participate anywhere,
In
the pious literary flow of our hearts.
They
can call them selfish creations,
Be it, but this
is the norm of love.
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