When
I miss you, I lose my mind.
My
life swings with - you are that source of wind.
You
make me an expressionist. I try to cry,
but
my voice is lost, my throat - it's all dry.
I
call you with all my wishes:
come
and blow my body like a whistle,
make
me an instrument that I never could play.
Burn
it, my body, as they rightly say:
the
human body - it's all but made of clay.
Be
there, for me ever, oh bidi of a Kendu leaf,
blow
me up to the eternity.
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