Weaving dreams
out of stuff I could not share,
Aspiring to fly to places of no return.
I await oblivion in the hands Of the one
Who does not care!
Does the fiery sun that sets tonight know,
If there is a tomorrow,
I shall rise again
And with folded hands to the unmoving,
I shall write again.
Jan-1st Week
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem