It seems there's no living God on the Earth,
I've been looking for him among souls,
He must be a story came out of scrolls,
A readable innocence of inner worth.
Somehow fate's blindness got cleared beside him,
The secret revealed: like a man he got birth,
One piligrim searching for love once revived me.
He told me that people can have angel's mirth.
He told me that love is the real treasure,
That it is too sacred to cover the fact,
That speaks for itself and need not be discovered:
Love is in giving yourself. It's an act.