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The splendor of her beauty, and the manner i narrate,
So my rival she's become, who was my companion till the date,

I would rather show to her than write her my pain,
Bloodied is my pen and fingers, in a wounded state,

Separation makes me glance at these walls of my house,
At times for the breeze, at times for the rain i wait,

There's so much delay on the arrival of her,
And my breath in leaving me, does not hesitate,

Who was it that thought of you as faithless and untrue,
Though thousands had been present a sight of you to get.

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