Page is my canvas,
On which I write,
Feelings of my heart,
Which in me were confined?
It’s better than a painter's brush,
For it reveals only what I wish,
Conceals whatever I wish to hide,
I consider it a gracious bliss.
It’s my tongue, it’s my heart,
It tells the world of my sweetheart,
It joins me with people, who relish the taste,
Without whom even life is a waste.
It is the reflection of my soul,
It makes me whole,
My friend is so old,
My friend is so bold.