I'm nowhere in your library, obviously
Nowhere in your gallery
A riddle that stood the test of seasons
Your glorious temple bear not my name
Sir, why, from your songs I draw my inspiration
You are the talk of our village
The muse of our cottage
Yet I know not your visit
Your face is a mystery, only imaginary
Your being everywhere but in my hut is a grievance
In vain have I reached out with my longing hands many a times
Am I too much a hold, sir?
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