I am meeting an old friend
I knew this is due to come;
glee dropped by and t'was good,
my friend and glee ain't pals.
Clouds that were once white
turn to a thousand faces,
curling the smokiness to wrap
around the sunset's traces.
I ache to save my senses
scrawl them in a waste pad.
The old friend has not forgotten,
cautiously kneading my sore.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem