The Legacy

This show of luxurious things, The crowd of charming faces, Or the death of hopes of hundreds of thousands. Who does not want a comfortable living? Who does not seek comforts? Which is not the season of love? But those are the seasons of injuries. If the show brightens with silver and gold, Then the sight of the world is worth seeing, Otherwise the moonlight is deathly pale. For a time the heart was restless in the side, There was a turmoil and craze. But this adversity be damned! Carrying my ego on my palm, Which was my blood-money. What will I do with this valueless thing! God forbid! It becomes the legacy, That bites my children