Resplendent was she,regale in rejoice,
blossomed she today as the most precious to someone's 'my precious,'
reliving was she all the moments of the day to the other rose gone withered lying insolently in the closet,
reminscences of her's emoted soulful rhapsody and merrier walk,
relishing was she moment when they were caressing each other,snuggled together,alighting a piquant polka around,
this valentine she was embossed in history as an accomplice to love,life's greatest bliss,
resuciated was the other,withered maybe she was today,rosy even she was someday,
and her's story was melancholy and grey,
maybe they don't call it love these days,
there was no valentine that day, and nothing special happened at bay,
for the girl it was one-off day,her mood swings were at sway,
he tried to console her,but that infuriated her anyway,
tears rolled down and she asked "do you call this love these days'?'
guilty was he charged for her tears that day, he couldn't have bear that even on doomsday'
plucked a rose from the garden he for her and went away, and just said that
"maybe i don't know what they call love these days."