I know her sweet name, though, 
Her surname to me is still unknown; 
Ignorant am I about her feminine glow, 
But aware of the pitch of her lovely tone.
Half of her name, though, I am aware of, 
She never bothers to know mine, 
My love for her may be a useless stuff.
But hers for me is a worship divine.
 
She never swears nor doth defend, 
Whereas I believe it a love at devotional line; 
Though I am at my youth’s crucial end, 
She, I believe, must be in her time prime.
I treat her as a love’s deity, a goddess, 
Who lives in my heart’s sacred shrine; 
But she might be, I feel, thinking me not less
Than a thrown unusable bottle of wine.                
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
 
                    