Flying butterflies fall on the dahlias,
I swing slowly, lazily sitting
On the big, beautiful swing, with
“Anne Frank’s Diary”, closed in my hand.
Looking lovingly at the soft creatures, my eyes
Searching for the most beautiful one.
Why?
Why do my eyes, rest always
On the ones—most beautiful?
My self itself does not know this.

In the garden play few children
All little maidens, and again
These big eyes of mine seek
For the sweetest one,
Why?
Why do my eyes, rest always
On the ones—most beautiful?
My soul itself does not know this.

On the meadow, sit three rabbits
And suddenly, hops down…but,
Before they enter the long green grasses
My discerning eyes catch
The cutest one—the fairest one.
Why?
Why do my yes, rest always
On the ones—most beautiful?
I, myself do not know this.

I jump down the stairs, and here I am
On the verandah!
Suddenly, the most graceful rose
On the flower tub shades its
Pretty pink petals, when got touched
By my unconscious fingers,
And I find many others beautiful,
Charming in their own ways.
Ones found uglier, less beautiful
Have turned beautifully beautiful
For my broad eyes today.
But why?
Yes, my heart itself knows that—
Why, am I still not me,
Deep inside?