That was you?

Who lighted an evening lamp in
My reminiscence? Could it have been you?
Is there a blossom that will not wither
By the trampling of vandalic time?
The mind has become a turbulent ocean where
The sensuality of desires has fainted.
We are prone to forget even our reflections;
We are tempted to laugh, even in anguish;
And also, under excruciating pain in our soul.

Today, in my reveries, my eyes shed a drop of tear.
That was a tear of joy and for you alone.
Time has scrawled too many stories and
Many waters flowed under the bridge.
Dusks drooped and withered
To make blossoms, of fresh dawns.
We have forgotten all the flamboyance of those days
And put on masks to cover our nature.
Still a lonely hue comes into the memory.
Was it you who made it come?