What is that thing called illusion?
Within whose proximity, I lose my perception.
What is that thing called dreams?
Which obsesses my mind in fantasy’s realms.

When eye catches the beauty of blossom
White magic produces silhouette of bee in lonesome
Whizzing around the alyssum, with the tiny feathers
Weeping ceases no pain when the petal withers.

When from the world of fantasy I recover
Winsome reality also seems faded forever.
While shedding tears would bring no merry
Wishing a star to fall is a dim-witted reverie .

Woeful experiences leave a lasting scar
Whose taints, as painful as bloodsheds of war.
When one’s mind, it flutters like weightless floss,
Within webs of illusion, life degrades without a gloss.

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